


Idiots in Love

by byrd_the_amazin



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: It's a work in progress, M/M, Multi, Other, SORRY FOR THE CHEESY TITLE I AM NOT AT MY BEST IT IS EARLY, each chapter is a different prompt, man i've got the motherload, this is a compilation of a ton of different prompts i was given on tumblr, this is not finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 81,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byrd_the_amazin/pseuds/byrd_the_amazin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of different newsies prompts I've been given on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jackcrutchie Summer Camp AU

**Author's Note:**

> byrd here. 
> 
> so this is just a random smattering of fics that I was prompted to write on my tumblr
> 
> it's a work in progress and y'all are welcome to come and request something (I'm @to-the-giant-furniture-wall)
> 
> ok so i understand that the title is terrible but?? it's early 
> 
> *glances at clock. 10:41 am*
> 
> super early
> 
> and my brain isnt functioning like it should
> 
> and yes
> 
> comments and kudoses keep me in the biz
> 
> (what biz, i dont know. 
> 
> the showbiz, the biz of writing fanfiction, the biz of being incapable of shutting up)
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> the prompt was: “We’re both team leaders at a summer camp for little people and you may be hot but goddammit my collection of twelve-year-olds are going to beat yours into the dust” for Jackcrutchie
> 
> -byrd

~

“So it’s cabin versus cabin this week?” Crutchie asked his cabin of boys as he surveyed the big board in the center of the camp. There was a row of cabin names, and then beside them, the amount of cabin points they had. Everyone’s points were currently at 0.

When they nodded and murmured assent, he ran a hand through his hair. “Great. Who are we against?”

There was silence among the boys as they checked the board, made the connection between the cabin name and counselor, and then, “We’re going up against _Mister Jack’s_ cabin.”

The level of awe and fear in the kid’s voice was enough to make even Crutchie pause. “What- what’s so bad about him?”

“He’s really nice,” said one boy. “I was with him last year. But he _never loses._ ”

“I’m sure that can’t be true,” laughed Crutchie. “He must lose _sometimes_.”

When this statement was met with stony silence, he cleared his throat. “Right. Never mind. Well, we’ll just have to beat him and set the record straight, now won’t we?”

“How do we beat _Jack_?” asked one kid nervously.

“We act together as a cabin,” Crutchie said. “Isn’t that how we get cabin points? By using teamwork for all the games, and keeping our cabin clean, and singing the loudest at the campfire?”

Reluctant nods all around.

“We can do that, can’t we?” Crutchie asked. More nodding, and they were starting to look more convinced.

“Alright, then, let’s do this, team!” he said, and put his hand in the middle. The boys all stuck their small hands on top of his, and they brought them back up with a “Go team!” that Crutchie personally thought could use some work, but hey. Small victories.

~

At dinner, Crutchie scanned the tables for Jack, this legendary counselor who had struck fear into the hearts of everyone in camp. And when he finally caught sight of him- _damn._

Jack was _gorgeous,_ with dark hair and eyes and a smile that lit up the whole dining room, and Crutchie tried _very_ hard not to stare, open-mouthed, because he had a whole table of boys watching him.

“So… what’d you think?” asked one. He had a smug smile that Crutchie didn’t particularly like.

“He doesn’t… look all that impressive,” Crutchie managed, taking a seat and desperately trying to control the flaming in his cheeks.

“We’re going to beat him,” said Crutchie with more confidence than he felt. Assuming he didn’t die of cardiac arrest before the end of the week.

~

After the meal, Crutchie sent his cabin to their riding lesson down at the stables, where he prayed they wouldn’t be too much of a handful for Blink and Elmer, and started on clearing their table.

When he got to the trashcans, Jack was standing there, _waiting for him?_

Crutchie skirted around him to dump the trays in the trash and then turned to face him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close Jack’s face was to his. _Christ._

“I hear you’re my competition,” Jack said, leaning casually against the wall and _no that wasn’t attractive at all._

“Yes, I’m Charlie. People call me Crutchie,” he said, indicating his crutch.

“Crutchie. I like it,” and now Jack was smiling. “Although I should warn you- I never lose the cabin challenges.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Crutchie, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve never gone against me.”

“True enough. Still think I’m gonna kick your ass, though.”

“Oh, you _wish,_ ” laughed Crutchie. “You’re going _down._ ”

He walked off and tried to pretend like his heart wasn’t going double-time inside his chest because _damn,_ he might be falling for his competition.

~

The week progressed. Crutchie, determined not to lose to that cocky, _gorgeous_ asshole, kept his cabin on their toes, regularly cleaning the cabin to spotlessness and making sure that they were participating in all the camp activities.

And the boys seemed to be having a lot of fun, hopeful that maybe, just _maybe_ this year they could beat the infamous Jack Kelly and his cabin. They really got into it, belting the lyrics to all the campfire songs and earning themselves extra points for helping the employees around camp. Multiple times, the boys stayed behind to help Crutchie clear their table after meals.

And Crutchie watched the infuriatingly hot competition from afar. Jack’s boys were just as diligent, working just as hard, if not harder. Crutchie would have been lying if he said he didn’t get nervous whenever he saw just how good Jack’s cabin was.

And he would _definitely_ be lying, to himself and to America, if he tried to deny that he got butterflies in his stomach whenever Jack shot him one of those grins across the dining room or soccer field.

~

The end of camp was quickly approaching, and Crutchie was shocked at how fast time was going. He didn’t want camp to end- his boys were all amazing and he loved getting to know them better, and he smiled every time they looked at the board and saw that they had pulled ahead of Jack’s boys by a point or two.

Perhaps even more surprising than Crutchie’s cabin fighting for the lead was the fact that Jack Kelly seemed to be finding every possible opportunity to seek Crutchie out and strike up a conversation with him.

Crutchie figured he was just trying to butter up the competition, but that didn’t mean he minded. He enjoyed his little talks with Jack, whether it be about the games they would be playing that day, or how one of Jack’s boys tackled another boy to the ground and Jack had had to intervene before a fight broke out.

Crutchie liked their little discussions, and camp ending meant that he would go back to New York, and Jack would go back to… wherever Jack lived (that hadn't come up yet), and there would be no more of these talks.

He tried to convince himself he wouldn’t miss it _that_ much.

He knew he was lying to himself. He had fallen for his annoying opponent, _hard,_ and, come tomorrow, he would have to say good-bye.

~

Crutchie was awoken by Jon, one of his boys, crouched by his bedside.

“Charlie. _Charlie._ They post the final results this morning,” he whispered.

“Final… results?” Crutchie said over a yawn.

“Of the cabin challenges,” Jon said patiently, having picked up over the past week that his counselor was not the most coherent when he had just woken up.

“Oh. _Oh shi-_ shoot. Shoot Let’s go then _what are we waiting for?”_ he cried, grabbing for his crutch.

The boys got ready in record speed, all eager to learn who the winner was. Who got the trophy to display in the cabin for next year’s group to marvel at and envy. Who got bragging rights for the remainder of camp, however short it may be.

When Crutchie’s cabin reached the center of camp and the board with all the cabins’ points, there was already a mob surrounding it, full of boys whooping and hollering, others disappointed with their own results.

Crutchie managed to shove  his way to the front. Starting from the bottom of the list, his eyes scanned upwards, with each new name expecting to see his cabin. When he reached the final three and he still hadn't seen them, he got a bit anxious. Mayeb they’d gotten second.

No, Jack’s cabin was in the second slot.

_Jack’s cabin_ was in the _second slot?_

_What_.

Crutchie’s eyes slowly, almost hesitantly, found the cabin in first place.

_They’d done it._ They’d won the cabin challenges, and, more importantly, beaten Jack Kelly.

Because there was the bastard himself, surrounded by whining boys, trying to console them, but even as Crutchie watched, Jack looked up and caught his eye, and then he was making his way through the crowds to Crutchie’s side.

“You won!” he shouted over the buzz of the crowd.

Crutchie could just nod, because this was the closest he and Jack had ever gotten, and Jack was reaching for his arm and _oh what was he doing_ and then he was spinning Crutchie around and their lips slotted neatly together and—

_Oh, shit._

Jack was kissing him.

_Jack Kelly_ was _kissing Crutchie._

Crutchie didn’t react at first, just stood there, in silence and in shock, as the boy he had been _pining over_ for about a week now _kissed him._

Then Jack moved away and searched Crutchie’s eyes desperately. “Was this…” He licked his lips. “Was that okay?”

Instead of answering, Crutchie grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled him back down again, relishing in the gasp that escaped Jack’s mouth when their lips crashed together once more, and they kissed, surrounded by a mob of people and the board that had quite possibly just given Crutchie the greatest gift ever, better than any trophy, and Jack’s and Crutchie’s cabins hooted and catcalled (Crutchie made a mental note to kill them all later) and _yes, this was wonderful._

When they pulled apart again, Jack laughed.

“What?” asked Crutchie breathlessly.

“You beat me,” Jack said with a smile. “Four straight years and no one’s beat me, and you just did.”

“Damn right I did,” Crutchie growled, and tugged him back down because so what if they were leaving today? This was _now,_ and it was amazing.

Winning had never felt so good before, Crutchie decided.


	2. Jackcrutchie 5 + 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re afraid that you’ll lose me in big crowds so you always hold my hand but now you just hold my hand when there’s only, like, five people around and I’m getting vry suspicious” jackcrutchie
> 
> ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MADE THIS A FIVE + ONE THING BC I AM TRASH FOR THAT KIND OF THING
> 
> enjoy
> 
> -byrd

~

1

Crutchie was lost.

There was no doubt about it.

He was at a rally, protesting the removal of the fine arts program from the public school system, which was a wonderful cause and all, but he had lost Jack in the crowd over half an hour ago.

And his crutch wasn’t exactly the most mobile of devices. People kept tripping over the end of it, and he kept stumbling. Not to mention it took up more space than he had right now, so he was constantly bumping elbows with those around him.

But worst of all, he was lost. He didn’t exactly have the street patterns of the city memorized, and all he knew was that he had entered the square when the rally first started. Only he had underestimated the vast size of the crowd, and so weaving his way through the mob took him all the way across at least four neighborhoods.

“Crutchie!”

He spun around so fast, he almost went flying to the ground. “Jack?”

“Crutch!” Jack materialized out of the crowd and grabbed Crutchie’s arm. “I lost you, _holy shit,_ you scared me, Crutchie. Don’t ever do that again _oh my God._ ”

Crutchie exhaled deeply as Jack hugged him tightly. Jack’s hand slid down Crutchie’s arm to grasp his hand, which did delightful things to Crutchie’s stomach and when Crutchie looked at it questioningly, Jack went pink in the face.

“So I don’t lose you,” he explained.

Crutchie nodded. Of course. Naturally Jack would think of something like this, something that sent Crutchie’s heart running the marathon his legs never would.

_Damn him._

He clutched Jack’s hand tighter as they wove their way through the shouting mass of people.

 

2

Crutchie slammed his locker door closed and spun to find Jack right behind him.

“Jack! Cripes, you scared me. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Jack said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just… you had history last block?”

“Correct.” As if Jack didn’t have Crutchie’s schedule memorized, and Crutchie Jack’s.

“So,” he said, falling into step with Crutchie’s slight limp as they made their way down the hallway, “how hard was the test?”

“It was fine,” Crutchie said. “But I actually study, unlike _some_ people.”

“ _Rude.”_ Jack slipped his hand into Crutchie’s as they entered the crowded center of the school. “I am doing _just_ fine in that class, thank you.”

“Sure, Jack.” Crutchie looked down at their joined hands.

This time, he didn’t say anything about it.

He just let it be and enjoyed the firmness of his best friend’s hand in his as they navigated through the crowded school hallway.

And if when Jack dropped his hand to leave for history, if Crutchie was disappointed, well, that was his business and his alone, wasn’t it?

 

3

As the curtain fell for the final time, cutting off the view of the audience, Crutchie set his soundboard down gently and sighed in relief.

The show had gone on without a hitch. The actors had all remembered their cues, the dances looked put-together and not like chaos onstage, and no lights had exploded this time.

Overall, a huge success, in Crutchie’s opinion.

He made his way out into the back hallway, dodging actors chatting with audience members, still in full costume and makeup, which made for an interesting sight, and finally found Jack in the lobby, who hugged him tightly.

“You were amazing!” Jack gushed.

“I wasn’t even on the stage,” Crutchie protested.

“Doesn’t matter. I can feel it. All the lights and sounds came on correctly and on time, which obviously means that you did an amazing job.” Jack held out a hand and said, “Can’t lose our star now, can we?”

Crutchie could feel his face flushing because _God_ he loved Jack so much it wasn’t fair, couldn’t his stupid friend tell? He wasn’t exactly subtle about it, either, but Jack never seemed to pick up on it.

Instead of voicing any of these thoughts aloud, Crutchie just accepted the hand Jack offered him and let his best friend drag him through the crowded lobby to greet people and congratulate them on a show well-done.

 

4

Crutchie was at another rally.

He wasn’t even sure what this one was. It was protesting something else, some other law that no one seemed to agree with. Crutchie had only agreed to come because Jack had requested that he be there.

And he couldn’t very well turn down Jack. Not when he pulled out the puppy dog eyes.

Not when Crutchie was so totally and completely falling for Jack, hard. And fast.

So here he was again, being pushed on all sides by a crowd that seemed to have no sense of personal space, especially not for someone with a crutch supporting half his weight. And while he wasn’t _lost_ this time, there was no way to fight his way out of the mob. He _knew_ where the sidewalk was. He could _see_ it. He just couldn’t get there.

 _Where had Jack vanished to?_ He had pulled Crutchie into the crowd (by the arm, not the hand this time) and disappeared to talk to someone. Said he’d be right back.

He hadn't been right back. It had been quite a while, and the crowd was getting riled up. Any moment now, this would turn into a riot and Crutchie would have to get the hell out or risk being trampled.

Or arrested. Again.

Not to mention he would have to get Jack out, too. They’d driven over here together and Crutchie didn’t feel like driving to the police station to bail his friend out again, because he _knew_ that Jack was going to get himself in trouble. He always did. He was just too _passionate,_ too strong-willed about the cause, whatever the cause may be.

So, no. Crutchie was not optimistic about the outcome of this rally.

He looked some more for Jack with no luck and was just about to try to fight his way out of the crowd to look around the edge of the road, a hand shot out of the mass of bodies and gripped his crutch tightly.

Attached to the hand was the one and only Jack Kelly, who shot Crutchie that troublemaker’s smile that made him go weak in the knees and grin right back. The hand wrapped around his crutch moved to his hand, and Crutchie sighed, a sort of resigned sound that he hoped to God Jack didn’t hear, because it was _so hard_ to be getting over Jack Kelly when he constantly did affectionate things like holding his hand on a regular basis.

“I keep losing you!” Jack shouted over the roar of the crowd. He squeezed Crutchie’s hand tightly. “Come on, there’re some people I want you to meet!”

He yanked Crutchie away, almost sending his crutch toppling to the ground, but Crutchie caught it and followed his friend through the mass of people, laughing the whole way.

 

5

Crutchie tilted his head, looking up at the sculpture of the man with wings.

He personally didn’t think it was all that impressive (Jack could certainly have done better), but the mob of people around the statue obviously thought differently. If Crutchie had a dollar for every time he’d been jostled, bumped, or pushed into a wall by tourists clambering for a good shot of the art…

The group had probably already left him behind, he thought bitterly as he was shoved aside by a middle-aged man with a camera around his neck. They had left him and he was going to be here until the museum closed. _Again._

When a hand landed on his shoulder, he jumped a mile, but it was only (thank the Lord) Jack.

“Come on, Crutch,” he laughed. “We’ve been waiting at the doors for like, ten minutes. Spot and Race were considering leaving you behind.”

“Of course they were,” Crutchie muttered, following Jack through the crowds. “This is becoming a regular thing, you know?”

“You’d better believe it—Shit,” Jack hissed, and Crutchie’s question was already on his lips before Jack answered it for him.

“We rode in Spot’s car on the way here.” he said, halting in the middle of the gallery and turning to Crutchie.

“Dammit, you’re right.” Crutchie readjusted the grip on his crutch. “Which means he has the car keys.”

“And the power,” Jack agreed.

He grabbed Crutchie’s hand and pulled him along at a run. Crutchie just managed to limp fast enough, watching the back of Jack’s head, feeling the warm pressure of Jack’s hand in his own, as they reached the front doors.

Thank heavens, their group was still there, although Race had a shit-eating grin on his face and Spot looked ready to kill someone.

“Finally,” Spot snapped. “You guys do realize it’s date night, right? We’re wasting precious quality time here that I _could_ be spending with my boyfriend.”

“Ah, they’re fine, Spot,” Race said. His gaze fell to Crutchie and Jack and their joined hands, and he held out his hand to Spot.

Spot hissed something foul and smacked a twenty dollar bill into Race’s outstretched hand. Race pocketed it with a smug smile.

“What the hell was _that?_ ” Jack demanded.

“Nothing,” Race said. The shit-eating grin was back.

“Nothing at all,” Spot agreed, and took out his car keys. “Time to go, ladies. Let’s move.”

 

+1

“Dammit.” Jack pocketed his phone and turned to Crutchie. “The others aren’t coming.”

Crutchie’s heart faltered and restarted, leaving him blinking very hard and fast. “ _What?_ It’s movie night! We all agreed to go together! _”_

“Davey’s got to watch Les, and it’s Friday, so Spot and Race aren’t coming.”

“Date night,” Crutchie said, and nodded, because the power couple had made it very clear that Fridays were sacred and not to be postponed for anything.

“So it’s just us,” Jack summed up, and Crutchie refused to meet his eyes, because now was _not_ the time for that stupid crush to start whispering in his ear about how nice Jack looked in the light from the movie theater sign, or how it was now _just the two of them, going to the movies, didn’t this qualify as a date?_

“I mean, we don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Jack said, wringing his hands, and _did Jack Kelly look nervous? Impossible._ “If that’ll make you uncomfortable, or--”

“No!” shouted Crutchie, and Jack jumped. “I mean, no. No. We can still go. I mean…” Crutchie took a deep breath. “We already bought the tickets, so we may as well.”

“Good point,” Jack said, opened the door to the theater, holding it for Crutchie as he came through.

Once they had bought popcorn and candy, Jack shifted the food so that he could reach for Crutchie’s with the other hand.

Crutchie gave a start, surprised, and looked around suspiciously for the crowd that Jack holding his hand usually meant.

But the lobby of the theater was nearly empty, save for a few kids with their father in line for the popcorn and a few teenagers buying tickets.

Jack had no reason to be holding his hand.

_What._

“Jack,” Crutchie whispered, as they made their way to the correct theater. “There’s no one here.”

“Yeah, it’s late, I know. We tried to pick a time when there wouldn’t be many people here, so that Spot wouldn’t get kicked out again for yelling at the screen and ‘disturbing the peace.’”

Crutchie smiled. “I actually wasn’t at the last movie night, so I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, it was great. Someone onscreen made a sexist comment and our very own drama queen raised such a stink that the attendant had to come to our aisle and ask him to leave the theater.”

“That’s amazing,” Crutchie laughed. “And I’m going to start coming out more with you guys.”

“Did my story convince you?”

“Well, that and all the other stories you’ve told me of you and your gang disturbing people and being publicly indecent, yeah,” said Crutchie.

“Good. I’d like to have you along more often,” Jack said. When Crutchie turned to look at him, he was looking at him, a fond smile on his face.

Crutchie’s heart did a sort of swooping motion and he looked away quickly.

They reached the end of the hall and Jack held open the door for him once more as they made their way into the gloriously empty theater.

“Best seats in the house,” Jack said as they plopped down near the front.

“I’m going to eat all the popcorn during the previews, I’m warning you, Kelly,” Crutchie said as he reached for the bag of popcorn.

“Fine by me,” Jack said, and took a sip of his drink with some difficulty, using only one hand.

It was then that Crutchie realized that their hands were still clasped tightly together.

“Jack,” he whispered, although they were the only ones in the theater and he needn’t have bothered; the previews hadn't even started yet. “There’s no one in here.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you like it like this? We can yell as loud as we want, and no one will mind,” Jack said, turning in his seat to face Crutchie.

Crutchie’s heart leapt into his throat.

“No, no, I love it like this. Just…” and _oh_ how did he word this without sounding like he didn’t want it because _God almighty_ he _did._ “You’re still holding my hand. Usually you only do that so that we don’t lose each other in crowds and things, but this place is empty. We’re all alone here.”

Jack yanked his hand away so quickly that Crutchie let out a sharp gasp. “I’m sorry,” Jack mumbled. “I thought maybe you liked it because you never complained and so I used the crowd thing as a cover and I’m _so sorry,_ Crutch, _really,_ because I’ve liked you forever but you never seemed to like me back. I thought maybe the hand-holding was okay so long as we had a reason, and I was planning on asking you out tonight because I _knew_ Davey had to babysit Les and it’s Friday, so Spot and Race are busy, and I’m so _so_ sorry if you don’t want anything to do with me now. I wouldn’t blame you. If you didn’t, I mean. I’m…” Jack ran a hand through his hair. “So, _so_ sorry, Crutchie.”

Crutchie sat there for one, two, three seconds before turning back to face the screen, which was displaying the first of the previews. There was still no one else in the theater with them,

“You- _you…_ ” he whispered, not meeting Jack’s eyes because he _couldn’t._ “You like _me?”_

“…Yes?” Jack mumbled, like it was a question.

“You, Jack Kelly, like me, Charlie Morris.”

“Yes.”

“ _What.”_ Now Crutchie turned to face Jack and saw the earnest, apologetic expression on his face.

“I’ve liked you forever, Crutch,” Jack said. “But you never seemed to like me back.”

“I’ve been hopelessly in love with you since you, a cool, popular, hip guy, sat down next to me, the reject crip, at lunch in our freshman year,” Crutchie said. “But we’ll get to that later. You decided to convey your feelings to me, _the most oblivious person maybe on this half of the planet,_ by _holding my hand_ and hoping I picked up on your feelings.”

“….Yes?” Jack asked again. He looked stunned. “Wait, _you_ like _me? What?_ ”

“Focus,” Crutchie snapped, because he was _not_ confessing his feelings for Jack in a dark movie theater _and having them returned what even was life._ “Jack Kelly, I’ve liked you from the beginning. And I always will. So I swear, if you’re teasing me, or if this is a dare, or anything like that, I _swear_ I will kill you slowly.” He took a deep breath. “You like me?”

Instead of answering, Jack turned completely in his seat so that he was totally facing Crutchie. He took Crutchie’s face in his hands and said, “Stop me if you don’t want this _do you want this?_ ”

Crutchie could only nod as Jack closed the rest of the distance between them and kissed him, lips sliding beautifully against Crutchie’s and making him shudder and sigh. After a moment or so of this glorious feeling, Crutchie decided he’d better return the kiss and opened his mouth, and while he may not have known exactly what he was doing, the sounds Jack was making were _so_ worth the initial awkwardness.

When they broke apart for air (oxygen was a bitch, Crutchie decided), Jack rested his forehead against Crutchie’s and laughed gently.

“If I wasn’t looking forward to this movie so much,” he said, “I’d ask you if you wanted to come home with me.”

“On the first date?” Crutchie asked playfully, kissing Jack’s nose. “Nah, I want to see the movie, too.”

“Here,” said Jack, spinning his body back around in his seat to face the screen. “We’ll compromise.”

And he reached for Crutchie’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

Crutchie didn’t stop grinning throughout the entire movie.

~

After the movie, Crutchie turned his phone back on to find four new messages waiting for him.

 _[Spot]_ have fuuuuuunnnn? :)

 _[Racetrack]_ have u kissed yet? ur giving spot anxiety

 _[Racetrack]_ and when bae gets anxious i dont get kisses

 _[Spot]_ jack jst txted me. congrats on gettin ur shit together

 _Those assholes,_ Crutchie thought, but he couldn’t find it in him to care as he never let go of his boyfriend’s ( _boyfriend’s!!)_ hand the whole way out of the theater.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont forget that i am a desperate child who craves prompts
> 
> (@to-the-giant-furniture-wall)


	3. Detention- Sprace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “we’re the only ones in detention” sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i realized (as i was posting this) that denton's name is like three (four?) letters away from "detention" and this pleases me bc (spoiler alert) i made him the detention teacher
> 
> poor guy puts up with so much
> 
> ALSO i, along with ninety nine percent of all ff authors, stole my hc for spot's and race's real names from the fic called Everything You've Done Wrong by sloanne, which i highly recommend you go read
> 
> thank u that will be all
> 
> here goes- i am actually super proud of this?
> 
> -byrd

Spot looked up from his drawing on the corner of his desk as the door to the detention room opened and slammed shut, depositing a very pissed-off looking boy. He promptly threw his things into a chair and plopped down at the desk beside them, huffing loudly.

Denton, the detention ward, a kindly middle-aged man who was very lenient with the rules and probably needed a pay raise about five years ago, merely looked up and returned to his work at the computer.

Spot thought that maybe talking was pushing his luck (poor Denton put up with enough already), but nevertheless, he leaned forward.

“What’s got _you_ so angry?”

The boy jumped, like he hadn't noticed Spot was there, then turned around. When he caught sight of Spot’s face, his eyes widened in recognition.

“You’re Spot Conlon,” he said.

Spot smirked, because no matter how uncaring he pretended to be, it was still nice to be known.

“That would be me,” he said, leaning back in his chair and dropping his Sharpie onto the desk. “What brings you to my domain?”

“Your…” The boy nodded slowly. “The detention room. Is that why they call you the King?”

“Yup. I’ve spent so much time in here, I’ve got my own seat. Denton!” he called suddenly, and the ward looked up from his computer. “What’s my day count?”

“In a row or just your total this year?” Denton looked bored.

“Total. No, wait, in a row.”

“That would be eighty-seven.”

The boy looked impressed. “Damn. This is my first time in here.”

“Now, see, you can’t be like that,” Spot said. “You’ve got to either avoid the place completely, or rack up your numbers.”

“Like you.”

“Like me.”

“Guess I’ll have to piss Wiesel off more often, then,” the boy said, and Spot had to fight back a laugh.

“What’d you do?”

“Me?” The boy put on a face of innocence that Spot didn’t buy for a second. “I didn’t do anything. Wiesel’s just an asshole.”

“Agreed. You still haven’t told me what you did.”

He sighed. “I may have…. Kissed my friend in front of the whole class because Wiesel made a homophobic comment and I wanted to prove him wrong?” The boy winced, as though he expected Spot to ridicule him for this.

As if. Spot was one of the most flamboyant bisexuals in this half of the country.

“Nice, nice. Who’d you kiss?”

“…Mush.” He seemed shocked that Spot wasn’t teasing him for it, and he kept looking like he was expecting Spot to hurt him.

“Meyers?”

He nodded.

“Oh, _good_ choice.” Spot hummed appreciatively. “He’s not a bad kisser at _all.”_

“You’ve kissed— _Mush?_ ”

“I’ve kissed nearly everyone in this school. Isn't that right, Denton?”

“Sadly,” came the dry reply. “Why do you think you’re in here so much? The faculty hates it. They gossip about you in the teacher meetings.”

The boy laughed incredulously. “I _like_ him,” he told Spot. “And you haven’t kissed _everyone._ ” He leaned into Spot’s personal space. “You haven’t kissed _me,_ Conlon.”

“We all love Denton,” Spot said, directly avoiding what very well may have been a challenge. He stretched and picked his marker back up. “Denton’s cool. He’s not an asshole, he puts up with all our shit, he’s a decent person…”

“You flatter me, truly, Spot,” Denton said, still not looking up from his work.

“And he’s _funny._ ”

“Amen,” Spot said with a laugh, beginning to sketch out the outline of a person’s face on the desk. “I never caught your name.”

“I never threw it.”

“Oh, ha. Last time I heard that joke, I laughed so hard I fell off my freaking dinosaur.” Spot added eyes to his drawing.

“You’re so _old,_ ” said the boy, with a wry smile. “Why, you don’t look a day over seventy.”

Spot put down his marker and glared. “You’re one to talk, old man. What year was that lame comeback from, nineteen- _twelve?_ ”

“Boys,” Denton warned.

Spot picked up his Sharpie again and began to fill in the boy’s hair- black, not at all like this asshole’s dark hair, no, of course not, what.

“Race.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Race.”

Spot frowned at his unsatisfactory art. “What kind of name is Race?”

“Well, Racetrack, actually. It’s my nickname.” A short pause. “You’re one to talk, _puppy._ I refuse to believe that Spot is your real name.”

“Who says it isn't?” Spot demanded.

“Your official records,” put in Denton. “Spot’s just a nickname, isn't it, Sean?”

“I retract my previous statement about how great you are, you old _ass,_ ” Spot hissed, and Race looked as though he was waiting for Denton to get mad, but the man just smiled at his screen.

Race snickered. “So how many people know your real name, _Sean?”_

“Call me that again and I swear, _Racetrack,_ ” Spot bit out, and the venom in his voice must have been on its highest level, because Race backed down.

“Sorry. Not cool.” Race looked at his hands.

Spot grunted as he drew a smirking mouth on the boy he’d been bringing to life on the surface of the desk.

Race leaned over, blocking his light and causing Spot to sit back, annoyed. “Can I _help_ you?”

“What’re you drawing?”

“You,” Spot said, without stopping to consider that this may be seen as a stalkerish move. “And I can’t get your damn _face_ right and you’re in my light. Move.”

For a moment, it looked as though Race might obey. He backed out of Spot’s light, but just as Spot made to take the lid back off of his marker, he came back into the light, casting a shadow right where Spot wanted to draw.

“ _Ass._ I said _move._ ” Because Spot really did not feel like dealing with this shit right now.

“Make me.”

Spot wondered if Race knew how loaded of a challenge that was. There was any number of ways that Spot could respond, from saying something threatening to make Race back away, or making Race uncomfortable enough to move.

Well… the second one was more fun.

So Spot stood from his chair and leaned across the desk towards Race, moving his face closer and closer to the other boy’s, until he could feel Race’s breath ghosting across his own lips. They stayed like this, inches away, until Race jerks backward.

“What the actual _hell._ ” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and if Spot hadn't been feeling so smug, he would have been offended- after all, their lips hadn't even touched.

“Excellent. You’re out of my light,” Spot said happily, pretending not to see the outraged look on Race’s face as he completed the picture.

He hadn't been lying- it _was_ Race, and he was pretty damn pleased with it, too. He felt that he’d done a good job.

Apparently Race thought so, too, because after another second of awkward offense, he leaned forward in interest, eyes taking in his own face staring back at him from the desktop.

“Not bad,” he said in a strangled voice, and cleared his throat. “Not bad at all, Conlon.”

“Thanks.” Spot sat back, quite pleased with himself, not only for the drawing, but also for being able to render Racetrack speechless.

The intercom crackled to life. _“Mr. Denton?”_

Denton looked up. “Present.”

“ _If you could please send Antonio to the office.”_

“On it.” Denton looked at Race. “Time to go.”

As he gathered his things, Spot tried to hold back his laughter. “Antonio, huh?”

“Zip it, _Sean._ ”

Spot shut his mouth and, while Race was distracted with getting his things together, he scrawled out a note with his Sharpie and a sticky note and stuffed it in Race’s coat pocket as he passed.

“See you, Racetrack.”

“Bye, asshole.”

“Right back at you, shithead.”

“Boys.” Denton’s tone held a warning.

And Race left the detention room, with the king of said detention room watching him closely with what may have been a fond smile on his face.

~

As Race heaved himself into one of the office chairs, awaiting his sentence from Principal Hearst, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, finding a crumpled up note that _definitely_ hadn't been there before.

Upon unfolding it, he found, in shorthand so shitty it made _him_ jealous,

_how about for real next time, ass? u were right… i’ve never kissed u before. xx, ur fav detention buddy_

That damn boy.

When the secretary told him that Hearst was ready to see him, Race certainly didn’t fold the note fondly and stick it in his pocket with care.

And he definitely didn’t march to the principal’s office with a smile on his face.

Because how corny would that be?

~

Spot looked up at the door to the detention room opened, and he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face when he saw Race himself, marching to the back of the room with all the confidence of someone who knew exactly what  he was doing.

Spot knew what he had written on the note, but it still came as a shock to him when Race grabbed his face across the desk and crushed their faces together, making Spot yelp against Race’s mouth. He raised a hand as if to hit Race…

But he didn’t. Instead, he let it happen.

Because it wasn’t a _bad_ kiss. It was actually quite nice, because Race wasn’t a bad kisser, until it was rudely interrupted by Denton clearing his throat.

When they both turned to glare at him, he shrugged. “Homophobic school rues. Not mine. I don’t mind, just tone it down a bit, hot stuff.”

Spot beamed. “I knew there was a reason I loved you, Denton.”

“Honored,” Denton said, and the smallest of smiles played across his face.

“So, plan on staying in here long?” Spot asked Race.

“What was it you said to me… I need to ‘rack up my numbers?’” Race’s grin was more of a smirk. “I’m here, your Majesty. Here to set some records straight.”

“Is that a challenge, _Antonio?_ ”

“You’d better effing believe it, _Sean._ ” He turned to the front of the classroom. “Denton, take my name down. I’m going to rack up more hours than even _this_ asshole can.”

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again shamelessly putting my tumblr on here
> 
> *flips table* SELF-PROMOTION HECK YISSS
> 
> (@to-the-giant-furniture-wall)
> 
> comments and kudoses are always lovely (just sayin)
> 
> -byrd


	4. Sprace- Spot's Annual Christmas Fudge (That Never Ends Up Well But Damn It This Year He Is Optimistic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m like 75% sure this won’t explode on us.” Sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this an established relationship thing and ITS SUPER SHORT SSORRY
> 
> but hey have some Christmas fluff (or as fluffy as it can get when at least half of your otp constantly wants to kill the other half)
> 
> but cmon its sprace
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

“Are you sure about this?” Race asked, glancing nervously at the bubbling pot on the stove.

“Of course. I do this every year. It’s _tradition,_ ” Spot said, sticking a finger in the bubbling concoction and tasting it. “Spot’s Christmas fudge has been attempted every year since I was, like, twelve.”

“Attempted,” Race noted, still eying the stovetop warily.

“Yeah…” Spot made a face. “So far, it’s had pretty shitty results.”

“Shitty results meaning…”

“But I am _optimistic!”_ shouted Spot, over top of Race’s question, “that with the famous Racetrack Higgins’ help, this year we will be successful.”

“How successful?” Race asked skeptically.

“Let’s just say that I’m like… 75% that this _won’t_ blow up in our faces.”

“That’s not encouraging. I am not encouraged.”

“You’re supposed to be _supportive,_ babe,” Spot whined, wrapping his arms around Race and pecking a kiss onto his lips. “This’ll work, I swear.”

“And if it doesn’t work? Can fudge even explode?”

Spot opened his mouth to answer, but Davey, in the next room, beat him to it.

“Theoretically, yes, if it’s liquefied fudge. Which Spot’s is. And if it doesn’t blow, this will have been the first year.”

“Screw you, Jacobs,” Spot snapped back, and they both heard Davey’s snicker.

“So this chocolate disaster is going to blow up.” Race swallowed hard. “All over us. Should we, like, take cover?”

“Nah,” said Spot. “Just be ready to duck.”

“ _Duck?_ How badly can you screw up _fudge-”_

“Now!” Spot shrieked in delight, and hit the ground.

Race, who normally had decent instinctual self-preservation, was caught off-guard, and he was hit full on in the face with the goopy chocolate mixture.

“Spot, you _asshole!_ ” he cried, and  heard his boyfriend crack up on the ground beside him.

“Aw, you’re fine, pissy baby,” Spot said, jumping to his feet and grabbing a towel for the stovetop. He mopped it off, then tossed the towel in the general direction of the laundry room.

Then he turned to Race and kissed his cheek. It wasn’t until Race felt his boyfriend’s tongue that he realized he was just trying to get the fudge off.

“ _Ew,_ Spot!” he yelled, and jumped backwards. Spot laughed.

“But you taste _so good,_ babyyyyy…” he drawled, and Race glared at him. He ran a finger along his own cheek, picking up a decent amount of fudge, and wiped it on Spot’s face.

“Ah, _asshole,”_ Spot said, stopping mid-laugh to inspect his face. “You’re going to freaking _pay_ for that, Higgins.”

“Come at me,” snorted Race, and braced himself as his boyfriend launched himself at him.

What he wasn’t expecting was Spot’s lips to hungrily mouth at his own.

But hey… this was fine, he thought, as he and Spot kissed desperately.

“Spot,” he gasped between kisses, “Spot, stop, I’ve got to get the chocolate off my face, stop, _God, Spot…_ ”

Spot pulled apart from him, licking the fudge off his lips that he had no doubt gotten from Race’s own, and shoved a towel in his face. Once Race’s face was relatively clean, they returned to kissing, Spot asserting control and shoving Race against the counter, which no, he didn’t mind, not at all.

Davey walked in midway through their kissing. “Spot, has it exploded yet—dear _Lord,_ I didn’t need to see that. I didn’t need that _no making out in the kitchen assholes!”_

Spot once more pulled off of Race’s mouth and huffed. “And where would _you_ prefer we did it, Mouth?”

“I hate that nickname,” Davey muttered. “Anywhere, _literally anywhere else_ except for the kitchen. Scram. I’ve got to make dinner for you incompetent children.”

“Aw, Davey, you wuv ussss,” Race said with a shit-eating grin. “Let’s go to the couch, Spot.”

“I wouldn’t,” Davey said, maneuvering around the two of them and surveying the still-smoking pot of fudge. “Jack and Crutchie are watching Netflix. How do you mess up fudge _this badly?”_

“’Watching Netflix.’ I don’t believe that for a second,” Spot snorted. He grabbed his boyfriend’s hand. “Let’s go, Race.”

“Where are we going?”

“Mmm, I’ll figure something out on the way. C’mon.”

And with that, they vacated the kitchen, leaving Davey scratching his head as to how Spot’s Christmas Fudge had failed _that_ miserably for at least the ninth year in a row.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come and give me prompts i love prompts i also love attention
> 
> yes
> 
> are you aware that sometimes little brothers are a pain but then THEY GO OUT SHOPPING AND BRING YOU BACK COFFEE 
> 
> yes 
> 
> -byrd


	5. Sprace+ "I just saw my ex quick kiss me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My friend dragged me to this party and I just saw my ex quick make out with me” –sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rly love this one ok 
> 
> oh yeah blame emily for all of these (@officialjackcrutchie go check her out quality blog right there)
> 
> -byrd

“Mush- _eee,_ ” whined Racetrack loudly as  his friend dragged him out the door. “I don’t _want_  to go to a party.”

“That sucks, doesn’t it?” Mush replied, checking his phone as the two marched out to his car. “You told me you’d come to be my wingman.”

“Mush, you don’t need a wingman. You are literally in a relationship. You have a boyfriend _why_ do you need a wingman?”

“Because I want to show off for my boyfriend,” Mush said plainly, as he clicked his keys and unlocked his car. “And showing up to a party _all alone_ is not impressive.”

“So I’m not even a wingman. Just your date so you don’t look lame in front of your boyfriend. Who, by the way, should love you regardless of how lame you are, and furthermore, is probably just as lame as you are for asking you out in the first place?”

He deserved the punch to the arm he got, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. “ _Hey!_ Asshole.”

“Don’t insult my Blink.” Mush suddenly looked very scary in the light from the streetlamp overhead, and Race gulped and ducked into the car.

“Right, so hypothetically, instead of going to this stupid-ass party, I could be working on that English paper that I’ve been putting off for weeks now-”

“Not my fault.”

“Or watching TV-”

“You need to get out more.”

“Or hooking up with someone-”

At this, Mush actually took his eyes off the road to look at Race incredulously.

“You haven’t gotten with _anyone,_ not even just for the night, since you and Oz broke up.”

“I’ve been… looking. Window-shopping. _Surveying_ my _options,_ ” Race mumbled, tracing the worn plush of the seat.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Mush snorted as they stopped at a red light.

Race smacked him. “It’s _true,_ ass.”

“But seriously. Are you over him yet?”

Race made a snorting noise that turned into a hacking cough, and he doubled over, trying to get air. When he came back up again, Mush was trying hard to hide his smile.

“I’ve been-” Race coughed once more. “Over him since I _dumped_ him, Mushee. I really just don’t find anyone very attractive right now, that’s all.”

“Good. Because there’s a great chance we’ll see him at this party.”

Race’s lungs betrayed him, and several more choking noises came from his throat before he regained his breath. “ _What?”_

“Race, it’s _at his house._ I assume he’ll be there.”

“Oh, hell no. Let me out!” Race shrieked, tugging on the door handle. “I’ll walk back to the dorm, I swear. Just let me out and I’ll go-”

“Sorry, dude,” Mush said unconcernedly as he made a sharp turn. “Besides, you’ve got to face it sooner or later. You guys are done. Shouldn’t be terrible.”

Race scoffed. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Perfect Relationship.”

“Hey, at least I’ll be there, to, I dunno, hold you back from punching his ugly face in if things get nasty,” Mush said.

“First of all, his face is not _ugly._ I have _standards,_ Meyers, even with exes. Second of all, you’re going to disappear with Blink the second we walk in that door, don’t even deny it. You won’t even be in the _room_ if I beat Oz’s sorry ass.”

“I would argue-”

“But I’m right,” Race agreed. “I don’t even have my phone to get me out of an awkward situation, _dammit,_ Mush. Please take me home?”

“No can do,” Mush said. “If we turn around now, I won’t get there in time, and I want to see Blink as soon as I can. Besides, I need a wingman.”

“You suck.”

“Love you too,”  Mush said, and blew him a kiss, never taking his eyes off the road.

When they pulled up to –Race internally gagged—Oz’s place, they could see that the party was already in full-swing. Music blasted through the windows, and every light in the house was on. In the living room, there looked to be some sort of disco light system set up, flashing multicolored lights everywhere.

“You ready?” Mush asked as he parked the car.

“Do I have to answer that?” Race asked. “Why are we here?”

“You don’t refuse Blinky when he pulls out the puppy dog eyes,” Mush said, which, alright, Race saw the logic in, but he was pissed that he had to be here, too.

“What else did he pull out to convince you?” he grumbled.

“Hmm…” Mush didn’t look as bothered as Race had hoped, which, _ew,_ probably confirmed that, yes, Blink had used sex to persuade Mush to come to the party.

“Let’s get this over with,” Race sighed, and jumped out of Mush’s car.

~

Spot surveyed the people dancing in the living room and tried not to appear bored out of his mind.

His friend Blink had asked him to come ( _“I can’t walk in there alone, Spot, how lame would that be?”)_ , which was great and all, but he was bored. And the drink options weren’t nearly strong enough to suit his tastes.

Blink had vanished the second they walked in, most likely to look for his boyfriend, but he was back, sitting next to Spot and whining that he wanted his Mushee to be there already. Spot was getting ready to douse him in cheap beer if he kept this up. Thankfully, he didn’t have to.

The front door opened and two people walked in. One Spot would have guessed was Mush, because if the excited squeal Blink gave beside him wasn’t enough to go by, Spot would know this boy just by appearance. Blink had drunkenly waxed poetic about how pretty the shade of brown his eyes were, and how they complimented his dark skin so well, so many times that Spot could pick this kid out of a lineup.

“Mush!” Blink shrieked, and fell off the stool he’d been perched on in his haste to see his boyfriend.

“Blink!” Mush cried, and dodged three (very drunk) dancers to reach him.

When they got to each other, they shared a very long and not very decent kiss that inevitably ended with a, “Bye, Spot!” a giggle, and one of them (Spot wasn’t sure which) dragging the other off.

The other boy, the one who had come in with Mush, shifted awkwardly in the doorway, and Spot, in a sudden act of compassion that doubted he would ever have again, slid off his own stool and went over to join him in the doorway.

“So you’re a friend of the boyfriend I’ve heard so much about,” he said with a grin.

The boy tilted his head, looking him up and down. “And I suppose that would make you-”

“Spot, Blink’s friend.”

“I’m Race. I’m Mush’s. I don’t _really_ want to be here…”

“…but your friend blackmailed you into it?” Spot guessed.

“Something like that. It was more like he shoved me into his car and only told me _halfway here_ that we were going to my ex’s house,” Race said with a snort.

Spot racked his brain. _Where had Blink said they were?_ “You’re… Oscar’s ex?”

“That would be me,” agreed Race. “Now I’m just hoping I don’t run into him. We sort of… broke up with a nasty fight, and now he hates my guts. I was going to hide behind Mush for the entire night, but…”

“He’s otherwise occupied,” Spot nodded in understanding. Then his tone turned teasing. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from your big scary ex.”

“Yeah, right,” Race snorted. “If he even comes near me, I’ll black _both_ his eyes this time.”

Spot struggled to keep his face neutral when in reality, he was pretty impressed. This scrawny little kid didn’t look like much, but apparently his ex was enough of an asshole to earn himself a black eye. Not for the first time, Spot wondered what the hell he was doing in this asshole’s house, at his party.

“You do that,” he said. “And when you get kicked out of Oz’s house, I’ll even come with you so you don’t look like a complete loner.”

“Thanks,” Race said dryly. “Means a lot to me.”

“Anytime.”

They stood in silence for a second, watching the chaos that was the living room full of sweaty, laughing people, until Race said, “We should probably, uh, get out of the doorway.”

“Yeah. Yeah, want something to drink?” Spot asked.

Race made a face. “Only if you’ve got something stronger than that piss Oz usually serves at his parties.”

“Alas,” said Spot dramatically, “I have none, otherwise I’d be drinking myself to sleep in the corner to try and forget this lame-ass party. Sorry, dude. Looks like you’re stuck with the cheap shit.”

Race sighed and shook his head as they made their way over to the stools where Spot and Blink had been sitting earlier. He grabbed a random beer out of the cooler on the bar and popped the top off with just his hands, no bottle opener or anything, and Spot should _not_ have found that as attractive as it was.

“Want one?” Race asked after a sip or two, and Spot nodded, if only to see Race do his thing again. One gulp later, he realized he didn’t want it, and he set it down on the bar and watched the partying people. The house was full of people laughing and shouting and singing the words to the popular song playing over the booming speakers in very loud, very off-key voices.

“So how much do you want to bet that we’ll have to drive drunk, blissed-out Mushes and Blinks home?” Race asked.

“Are you a betting man, Race? What’s in it for me?”

“Five bucks.” Race checked his pockets. “Just kidding, I’m broke. Never mind.”

“Nah,” said Spot. “It’s more likely they’ll go home together, or spend the night here.”

“I’d die before I let that happen. No matter _how_ annoying Mush is, even he doesn’t deserve to stay in this shithead’s house all night,” Race said with a shudder.

“ _Gross,_ ” Spot said suddenly, realizing something. _“_ Blink’s my roommate, which means they had better go back to Mush’s place and bug his poor roomie with their loud sex.”

“Nice to meet you, asshole,” snapped Race. “ _I’m_ the poor roomie. So they’d better go to Blink’s place. I have nowhere to crash tonight if they take their… shenanigans to my dorm room.”

“And you think I do?” Spot asked. “My usual haunt is my friend Jack’s place, and he’s on a date tonight, and I’m not putting up with my roommate having sex with his boyfriend right across the room.”

“ _My_ usual guy’s out tonight, too,” whined Race.

“Well then, we’re both screwed, aren’t we, Race?” Spot hissed, leaning over so that his face was right in front of Race’s. Race backed up, and Spot leaned back, satisfied.

They sat in silence for a while longer, watching as couple after couple slipped off the dance floor and into various rooms, closing the door behind them. Spot thought, with some satisfaction, that it would be a pain in the ass for Oscar in the morning to round up and find rides for all those drunk people.

Then he wondered why he was being so awful to this guy Oz. He was hosting the party, after all. Maybe it was because he had caused this boy Race pain, maybe recently, and Spot hated the thought of that.

Briefly, and completely off-topic, he wondered if Race had found anyone since Oscar. Or if he was still single.

He wondered why he cared.

He clearly needed more alcohol in his system, he reasoned, reaching for his abandoned beer bottle and taking a good long swig.

~

Race wasn’t sure about this guy Spot, but he was good company. And he was _hot._

Irrelevant.

But _so true._

The thing was, sitting quietly with Spot could have been awkward, but it wasn’t. Race was strangely comfortable with this near-stranger he’d met ten minutes ago. Must have been the beer.

He had just looked up to look Spot in the eyes when something over Spot’s shoulder caught his eye.

 _Oscar._ Weaving his way through people, checking in with everyone, refilling snacks and drinks, and making pleasant conversation with the guests.

Race must have made a horrifying face, because Spot’s expression melted to one of confusion. He whipped his head around to see what the matter was, and when he turned back around, there was understanding in his features.

“That’s Oscar.” It wasn’t a question.

Race nodded. His mouth had suddenly gone bone dry. _Stupid._ He’d known he would probably run into his ex at some point tonight- it was his house, after all,- but now that the moment had come, he was in no way ready for it.

“Do you…” Spot hesitated. “Do you _want_ to talk to him?”

 _“Hell_ no,” Race said, with a nervous laugh. “I don’t even want to see him. Just to punch him, which will almost certainly get me kicked out, and I need to babysit Mush.”

“Wait, I have an idea,” Spot said. “Get down.”

“What?”

“Off your stool. Let’s go.”

Race slid off his stool, and Spot did, too, and reached for Race’s upper arms, gripping them tightly.

“Do you trust me?” he shouted over the blasting music that someone had just cranked up. Their faces were so close that Race could feel Spot’s breath on his mouth. It shouldn’t have made his heart speed up the way it did. Race blamed it on the alcohol again.

“..Yes?” Race said, and it was almost a question, but that seemed to be enough for Spot.

He slammed Race against the wall, and when the back of Race’s head hit hard wall, he gasped, loudly.

“Spot, what-“

“Is he coming?”

“W-what?” Race sputtered, still in shock.

“Oscar. Is he coming this way?”

Race craned his neck. Oz was leaving behind two very drunk boys and making his way over to where Race and Spot were up against the wall.

“Yes, but what-”

His words were cut off by a pair of warm lips sealing themselves over his, effectively shutting him up. Spot’s hands slid up his arms until they were cradling Race’s jaw, almost tenderly, making up for the rough way in which Spot was attacking his mouth.

It was a competition, a battle, and Race didn’t know what the hell was going on, but that didn’t mean he planned on losing. He grabbed Spot’s hips and kissed back with all he had, mouth moving desperately against Spot’s as Spot pressed him against the wall with his entire body.

After an indeterminable amount of time (Hours? Days?), Spot pulled off of Race’s mouth, keeping his body flush against Race’s, pinning him to the wall. They both gasped, gulping back breaths they hadn't realized they were missing, but _oh yeah_ _,_ they needed oxygen to live.

“Oh my god,” Race said through labored breath. “Oh my _god_ what the _hell-_ ”

“I think he’s gone,” Spot interrupted, turning his head to see, and Race got a whiff of Spot’s shampoo. He smelled _amazing._

Which was completely irrelevant, of course.

“He’s gone,” Spot confirmed, turning his face back towards him, and _Christ_ their lips were close. It was another few seconds before he backed up, removing his hands from Race’s upper arms, leaving bright red marks that would probably bruise later.

“What was _that?_ ” Race demanded.

Spot smirked. “You needed a way out of talking to your ex. I created one.”

“By _making out with me._ ”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment type of thing. I was out of ideas,” Spot said with a shrug. “But hey, he’s gone, so…”

Race craned his neck to see Oz. Sure enough, he had moved on to the guests on the back porch, having obviously passed Spot and Race by.

“You’re right,” Race admitted, as Spot backed up further. His arms hurt, because _damn_ Spot did not look like much in the strength category but he had a _tight_ grip. “Hey, you’re right. Thanks.”

He brought his head back to look Spot in the eyes, only to see that he was gone, melted into the partying crowd.

“What the _hell_ ,” Race muttered, looking around in the hopes of spotting him, but it was no good. Spot had vanished.

Ten minutes later, he had had no luck. His (what, stranger? Friend? Makeout buddy? Problem?) had disappeared.

“What the _hell?_ ” he cried, angrier now, because you couldn’t just _do that._ You couldn’t just give a guy the greatest kiss of the night, maybe of his life, and then _run away._

Oz came back in the door and saw Race. He came over to him, grinning meanly.

“What’s the matter, _Tony?_ Boy-toy leave you for someone better?”

“Screw you,” Race snapped. “I’m going home. Thanks for the disgusting beer, cheapo.”

He pushed past his ex and ran out the door, past drunk people and people well on their way to becoming drunk, past couples making out and couples half unclothed, and to his car, where he started it and sped out of there.

As the streetlights began to blur from his angry tears, he furiously wiped them away, determined not to let them fall. It was stupid. It was so stupid. Spot had helped him with a cover story for Oz, and then he’d run away.

Probably out of secondhand embarrassment. Race was sure he was a terrible kisser. Oz had always told him so.

But there had been nothing romantic involved. It had been a quick, thirty second makeout session. Romantic feelings didn’t go with drunk hookups at parties.

 _Except they hadn't been drunk_ , the more optimistic part of Race’s mind pressed. _And Spot had seemed to enjoy it just fine. At least, until he had run away._

He pushed those thoughts down as he gunned the car home.

Mush wouldn’t need his car; he’d go home with Blink, and screw what Spot thought of it. He had left Race to face his ex alone. He could put up with Mush and Blink for a night.

~

“Are you _freaking_ kidding me,” Race mumbled to the ceiling. He rolled over and looked at his alarm clock. It was 3:38 am. Far too early for this shit.

The knocking on his dorm room door didn’t stop- an incessant, loud, pounding, and he considered ignoring it. Then again…

Maybe it was the floor manager, at his door to complain about the smell of weed again. The first time this had happened, Race had _been able to prove_ that it wasn’t Mush or him, and yet every time the smell came back up, the grumpy old man showed up at their door to yell at them.

If it _was_ him, Race didn’t feel like opening the door. He just wanted to _sleep._

Sadly, whoever was disturbing his peace didn’t feel like letting him do that.

After another few minutes of _poundpoundpound,_ when it was evident that the person wasn’t going away, Race rolled out of bed, cursing the world, and flung open the door, wondering who the hell was on the other side.

Of all people, he wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years.

Spot was standing there, looking bedraggled and like he’d run all the way here.

“I’m shutting the goddamn door,” Race snapped, and made to do just that, when Spot put his foot in the door.

“Wait, _please,_ ” he said. He _sounded_ like he’d run all the way here, too.

Race opened the door a centimeter more and looked at Spot expectantly. “I’m waiting.”

“Okay, I’m sorry for kissing you without warning, just, like, attacking you, and I’m also sorry for leaving you afterwards-”

“To face a very bitchy Oz, I might add,” Race said, crossing his arms.

Spot’s face whitened. “Oh god, seriously? I am _so_ sorry. I didn’t know- I swear, I just meant to kiss you and then leave it be, so he would leave you alone, but then we pulled apart and you were _inches_ from my face and you looked _so gorgeous_ and oh my god I couldn’t deal with it. I’m. Sorry. Yes. I’m sorry.”

“What.”

“Sorry?” Spot said, and winced, like he’d said something wrong, like he hadn't just told Race he was hot and that he liked kissing him and that he hadn't _meant_ to abandon him.

“Spot.”

“Yes,” Spot said, looking nervous. His normally cocky face was now questioning and unsure. It wasn’t a good look on him. Race liked the self-confident asshole better, and he wanted to kiss the doubt right off of Spot’s face.

So he opened the door. And he did.

This kiss was softer than their first. No one was slammed into a wall, and this one lasted maybe five seconds at most, but when they pulled apart, Race was just as breathless as after the first.

“Shut up.” Race brought up a hand to cup Spot’s face, and Spot leaned into the touch.

“I came with an apology,” Spot murmured, “and a request.”

“Apology _definitely_ accepted,” Race said, stepping closer. “Ask away.”

“Could I…” Spot shifted on his feet. “Could I stay here tonight? Mush and Blink are being _really_ loud.”

Race couldn’t help it, he laughed out loud. “I just met you, Spot. You really want to stay here?”

“Well yeah, I just met you, but Mush seems okay, and he wouldn’t put up with shit,” Spot said.

“That’s fair. And true.”

“And besides… you’ve given me two of what have got to be the greatest kisses of my life,” Spot said, and Race would be lying if he said that _that_ didn’t make his heart speed up a bit.

“Well, I _suppose…_ ” Race said, and kissed Spot again, pulling him into the dorm room behind him.

Neither of them got much sleep that night.

Somehow, Race didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super proud of this one shh
> 
> (i'm @to-the-giant-furniture-wall. in case you hadnt gathered yet)
> 
> -byrd


	6. Sprace + my date is an ass and you're the waiter and i am so sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sprace- “you’re my waiter and I’m on a crappy date with an asshole”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this is for that anon who requested this prompt - thanks boo
> 
> here goes nothing 
> 
> HEY I REALIZE THAT I NAMED THE ASSHOLE DATE PATRICK AND I KNOW THAT THERE'S A NEWSIE IN THE MOVIE NAMED PATRICK WHO IS PROBABLY NOT AN ASS (i mean he left his mother but he may have had a liable reason who knows) BUT I ASKED MY FRIENDS FOR A GOOD NAME FOR AN ASS AND THEY PROMPTLY RESPONDED 'patrick' SO THAT HAPPENED
> 
> yes
> 
> kimble kamble byrd likes to ramble
> 
> -byrd

~

Race internally sighed as the guest he was waiting on changed his order for the –what was it, sixth time? He patiently scribbled down the newest order and promised to return with his food soon, then vanished to the kitchen to put in the order.

Romeo, his friend and fellow employee at the restaurant, looked up as Race came over to the dishwasher.

“Same guy again?”

“Same guy again,” Race confirmed. He had come in here twice already, complaining about the guest and his indecisiveness.

“It’s alright, you’re off work in, what, five hours?” Romeo said with a wry smile, scrubbing a dirty plate.

“You’re. Not. _Helping_ ,” Race groaned, hitting his head against the side of the dishwasher.

 “Hey, don’t take it out on Juliet,” Romeo said, dunking the plate in the soapy water.

“Only _you_ would name a _kitchen appliance_ something that corresponds to your own nickname,” Race sighed, and Romeo shrugged unapologetically.

“Higgins! Order up!” called the chef, a burly guy named Morris that Race had had maybe three real interactions with since starting here a year ago, two of them involving Race pissing Morris off in some way and Morris threatening to snap his neck.

Race went to collect his tray, now heaping with dishes, and took them out to the family, then served the indecisive man at the next table over. He wasn’t surprised when the guy who couldn’t make up his mind requested Pepsi instead of Coke, and instead of showing his irritation at this –seriously, _make up your damn mind,_ \- Race plastered on a fake smile and went to retrieve the drink.

When the man had finally been served, Race attended to his next table, where two guys about his age were seated, in a heated discussion. So heated, in fact, that one was leaning across the table in order to get in the other’s face, and neither of them noticed when Race refilled their drinks.

One was decent-looking, and the other, the one leaning across the table, was drop-dead _gorgeous._ He had bright eyes that flashed as he spoke, and his hands were in constant motion, gesturing wildly as he spoke.

Race shook himself. Chances are, the guy was on a date with his boyfriend, and they just liked to argue. And he wasn’t supposed to be checking cute guys out on the job. It was _unprofessional,_ according to Wiesel, the homophobic and grumpy old chef who wasn’t technically in charge but acted like he was anyways, and refused to accept that Race, along with at least half his kitchen staff, was queer.

So of course, instead of directly flirting with the cute guy, Race went back into the kitchen to refill his pitchers of drinks and whined about it to Romeo, who was hard at work at the dishwasher.

“He’s so hooooot,” Race sighed, “and I think he’s on a date with his boyfriend and I _hate life._ ”

“There, there, baby,” Romeo said, drying a dish and stacking it on the pile. “You’ll be okay.”

Race just sighed.

“Isn't is alt=most time for you to make your rounds again?” Romeo asked.

“Yeah, but that’ll mean I have to _see_ him. What if he, like, _talks to me?_ ” Race asked as he walked away.

“Christ, get it together,” Romeo muttered, but Race was already halfway to the kitchen door.

~

Spot wished the cute waiter would speak up.

He kept circling their table, being not-at-all-subtle, and Spot might have said something about it had he not been so utterly immersed in his argument with Patrick.

The night had started out nice and quiet, with easy conversation. Spot and Patrick had never actually met; this was a blind date set up by their scheming friends. But Patrick seemed alright.

For the first ten minutes, anyways.

Because then Patrick had begun to drink. And drink. And drink. Then a passing waitress had dropped a glass, and Patrick had slurred something along the lines of “freaking bitch can’t do anything right.”

Which had prompted Spot to hiss, “ _You_ can’t do anything right, ass.”

Now they were face to face, almost touching. The alcohol in his breath was almost overpowering, and Spot was ready to _punch_ him, the bastard. He kept making arguments as to how women were inferior to men because of their history, and how it dated all the way back to ancient times, and they belonged in the kitchen, and Spot was wondering how he had ended up on this date in the first place.

“That’s _bullshit,_ ” he said, loudly, and heard a throat clear behind him.

It was Cute Waiter. He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to disappear, but instead, he simply said, “The manager wanted me to let you two know that you’re being overly loud and apparently we don’t… we don’t tolerate that shit. _Stuff,_ I mean. So shh.”

Spot coughed loudly to hide his laugh, but Patrick looked outraged.

“I am _trying_ ,” he said, directing all his anger towards Spot onto Cute Waiter, “to have an _enjoyable meal,_ and you come over here and tell _me_ to-”

“Shut it, Patrick,” Spot snapped. “Apologize. We’re taking this outside.”

“ _Oh,_ now we’re taking it _outside?”_ he leered, and it was painfully obvious just how much he’d had to drink when he breathed in Spot’s face.

“Goddammit, Patrick, I don’t want to do this. Not tonight,” Spot said, almost pleading now. Cute Waiter looked uncomfortable, but Spot noticed he stayed right where he was. He didn’t go get his boss, or some higher power to deal with Spot and Patrick. He wanted to do it, and Spot respected that mentality.

Which meant that he didn’t feel like pushing how far this guy’s patience would go.

“Patrick,” he said, voice firmer now. “He asked us to shut up.” _He asked_ you _to shut up._ “Don’t make his life any harder. Let’s go. Seriously.”

It took Patrick a second to process his words. Spot could see his mind working through them, then he spoke, “Screw you, Spottee. And you…” he turned to Cute Waiter. “Other guy. Or something. Screw you both.” He hiccupped. “I’m out. Screw this.”

He stood and staggered off, hitting a few chairs on his way out.

The guests that had been watching the spectacle with interest turned back around to their meals. Conversation across the restaurant resumed as normal, and Cute Waiter seemed to relax.

“Yo Crutchie!” he called, and the host, standing at his podium at the front door, looked up. “Call our friend here a cab, will you?”

“Already on it,” the host promised, and pulled a phone out of his back pocket.

Spot relaxed back into his chair and exhaled. “I am so, _so_ sorry about that,” he said.

Cute Waiter waved it off. “It’s fine. It actually happens more than you would think.” He shrugged. “One of the quirks to offering alcohol.”

Spot still felt bad. “I’ll pay for the meal, and whatever his disruption may have cost you guys, I’m _so sorry_ dammit…”

Cute Waiter shook his head. “You’re fine, I said. It wasn’t you. Although I have to ask…” He looked unsure now. “What made you start liking him in the first place if all your dates are like this?”

“Oh, god, this was the first date,” Spot said, and laughed dryly. “It was a blind date, set up by our friends. Obviously it didn’t go well.”

Cute Waiter hummed in agreement, then looked at the table. “At least he didn’t smash anything. Our last drunk caused us to have to go out and buy four new dishes.”

“Really?”

“Really. My friend, he’s the dishwasher, he was furious. Took it as a personal insult.”

Spot snickered, and Cute Waiter smiled at him and _damn_ he really was gorgeous.

“I’m Race.” Cute Waiter –Race- held out a hand, and Spot took it.

“Spot.”

“So I take it you won’t be going on any more dates with him.”

“Not with him, no,” Spot sighed. “I’ll keep waiting for the right one to come along.”

“About that…” Race looked nervous, but he swallowed hard and seemed to get past it, because he turned to Spot. “Would you be interested in going out when I get off work?”

Spot was quite certain his jaw had literally dropped. “ _What?_ ”

“It’s alright if you don’t, um, want to, but I was just wondering if-”

“Shut up. Now.” Spot held out a hand. “Give me your arm.”

He obediently held out his arm, and Spot grabbed the pen out of Race’s apron pocket. Thisclose contact with Race _definitely_ didn’t send shivers up Spot’s back, no, of course not.

He wrote his phone number down in messy handwriting on the inside of Race’s forearm, right where, if he cared enough to conceal it, he could. Then he capped the pen and handed it back to Race, who took it, a dazed expression on his face.

“Call me when you get off work,” Spot said, “and I’ll take you out. Wherever you want to go.” He set a twenty down on the table, which was more than he and Patrick had spent, but he figured Race deserved the extra.

“No drunken yelling, I hope?” Race asked, looking out the front window. Spot followed his gaze to see a cab driver escorting a drunk Patrick into the car, with the host Race had called Crutchie overseeing it.

“No drunken yelling,” Spot agreed with a smile. “I’m gonna go make sure he doesn’t knock out the driver. You go do your thing. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yes,” breathed Race. He turned to clean up the table, then looked back. “Bye, Spot.”

The butterflies in Spot’s stomach magnified to birds, fluttering up into his throat and threatening to cut off his oxygen supply. “Bye, Race. Thanks.”

“See you tonight.”

“See you.”

Spot left the restaurant with a smile so big it must have looked like a leer, and didn’t stop grinning the whole way home.

~

Race examined the numbers on his arm, even though he’d already memorized them, the way Spot looped his twos and crossed his sevens, and it wouldn’t matter if the numbers vanished from his arm, because he had looked down at them so many times, they were engraved into his mind.

Romeo had freaked out, of course, upon seeing the messy scribbles on Race’s forearm, and pronounced that he had “called it” and that Race needed to come to him for wedding plans.

Race had just laughed because this crazy, on-a-whim-thing that he and Spot had planned might not work out. It could end in yelling, or fighting, or someone storming out.

But it could also end up amazing. Because Spot didn’t seem all that bad. And the fact that his face was the hottest thing Race had ever laid eyes on didn’t hurt.

This could be good, he thought. It could be amazing.

He smiled all the way through the rest of his shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because Romeo would totally name kitchen appliances after Shakespeare to correspond with his own nickname
> 
> sorry it's true i dont make the rules 
> 
> -byrd


	7. Sprace- "I drunkenly tried to fight you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I drunkenly tried to fight you and knocked myself out but you were kind enough to take care of me till I woke up” –Sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *loudly sings* iiii dont know what im dooooiiiing
> 
> blame my (awesome!) anons on tumblr for this 
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

~

Race knew he had made a mistake in coming to this party.

Of course, he came to this realization two hours and three beers into the festivities, so it was much too late to do anything about it. The room was starting to swirl around him, the floor pitching back and forth and the people and furniture swaying dangerously.

Or maybe that was just him.

He vaguely remembered staggering to a table, leaning on it as people laughed and talked and danced around him, trying to get his bearings, but he wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t thinking _at all._

So when the guy bumped into him from behind, Race didn’t think. He just reacted, spinning around and swinging his arm out before any rational thought could cross his mind, and his fist connected with the guy’s face.

He only registered the angry yell from the guy as he fell to his knees, his head buzzing from the noise and the alcohol and the physical exertion required to hit the person, and that was it. The last thing he remembered before the world went black.

~

Race woke to freezing cold, biting at his cheeks and the tips of his fingers.

 _I’m outside,_ he realized, and wondered if the guy he had punched had dragged him out here to beat him senseless, and if he had just given up when he realized Race was out cold..

He only slightly remembered the party, which, by the sound of it, was still going on inside the house. He had a vague memory of punching the boy who’d bumped into him, and then—

Nothing. He couldn’t recall anything from falling to the ground till now, and if he was perfectly honest, that scared him. He could have done _anything._

When his eyes finally focused and his senses returned to him, he realized his head was in someone’s lap, and someone’s hands were lightly running through his hair.

“What the hell _happened_?” he croaked, attempting to sit up, but his head was _so heavy_. Whoever’s hand it was froze, then removed their hand from his head, which, _unfair._ That had felt _amazing,_ and he had a mind-splitting headache.

“You’re a freaking lightweight is what the hell happened,” the person said, and as Race tried to sit up again, he turned to face them.

_Damn._

“How did such a hot person get saddled with babysitting me?” he asked hoarsely, then realized, _shit,_ his mouth hadn't decided to confer with his brain before speaking, and _had he just called this very attractive guy out on his very attractiveness?_

“Well,” said the guy, and his eyes danced with laughter even though the rest of his face remained neutral. “You got blackout-freaking- _shitfaced_ and decided that this hot person accidentally bumping into you was enough to warrant a punch to the face.”

“Oh my god,” Race breathed. “That was _you?_ ”

The guy nodded and scooted backwards to allow Race room to sit up completely.

Race ran a hand through his hair. “I am _so sorry,_ honest, dammit I didn’t mean to… I’m kind of terrible at holding my beer.”

“You’re telling me,” the guy said, snickering. As Race got a really good look at him, he saw that his left cheekbone had a slight bruise forming on it.

“Holy _shit_ it left a mark I’m so _sorry_ -“

“Hey,” the guy interrupted. “Hey, listen. It’s not that bad. It’s fine, really. I’ve gotten much worse from angry drunks.”

“But I’m not even an _angry_ drunk,” Race whined, hitting his head on the boy’s shoulder, which turned out to be a mistake when redhot pain shot through his head. “Just a confused one.”

“Impulsive, too.”

Race squinted at him. “Was that an insult?”

“Of course not.”

“Wasthat _sarcasm_?”

The guy laughed, for real this time, and _damn_ his whole face really did light up when he did. Race decided that his smile was _much_ more attractive than the tough-guy sneer he’d been sporting for most of their conversation.

“You’re still drunk,” he said.

“Just a little bit,” Race sighed, resting his head on the guy’s shoulder again, gently this time. “I wanna go back to the party. Mushee said he’d be in the kitchen if I needed him.”

“ _Mushee_ said that you needed fresh air, and not to bug him.”

Race didn’t ask how this guy knew Mush, or knew to go to him for advice on an unconscious Race, but his face scrunched up in confusion. “Why can’t I bother him? I want to go _home._ ”

“Your friend Mush found a pretty boy to make out with in one of the guest bedrooms. I’d bet _money_ that neither of them want to be disturbed for the rest of the night, at least.”

“Ew,” Race groaned. “Ew ew _eww_ I did not need to know that _why-_ ”

“So we’ll be out here,” the boy continued, “until the party’s over and either Mush or my friend is kind enough to give us a ride.”

“Us?”

“I’m buzzed. Can’t drive while buzzed- it’s just like driving drunk.”

“You sound like an effing public service announcement commercial,” Race grumbled. “Where’s my phone?”

He took his head off of the guy’s shoulder and dug around in his pocket until he located his phone, and somehow, his cold and unsteady fingers unlocked it and pressed the phone app.

The numbers started to swirl before his eyes, so he shut them quickly and handed the phone to the boy. “Do me a favor. Find the contact named “Davey” and call him for me. Put it on speakerphone.”

“Okay. Who’s Davey?”

“He’s like the mom-friend in our friend group. He’ll come get us.”

“The mom-friend?” he asked skeptically, but he did as Race asked, and soon, Davey’s voice came over the phone’s speaker.

“ _Race? It’s one in the morning. What do you want?”_

“Sorry, Davey,” Race said. “I need a ride home ‘cause I’m drunk and my friend’s drunk too.”

“Buzzed,” the guy corrected.

“Buzzed,” Race repeated.

“ _Which is just as bad as driving drunk,”_ Davey sighed.

“Freaking public service announcements,” Race muttered. “You know the address?”

“ _Yeah, you texted it to me yesterday just in case something like this happened.”_

“I know myself so well.” Race’s head was once more resting on the other guy’s shoulder and somehow, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“ _I’ll be right there. Don’t do anything stupid.”_

“I won’t, Davey,” Race drawled happily.

Davey sighed one more time and then hung up.

~

When the guy –whose name Race _still_ didn’t know- had been safely driven home, Race was left in the car with Davey.

“Have fun?” asked Davey, as they turned onto Race’s street.

“I hope that was a freaking joke, David Jacobs,” Race snapped.

“I don’t know. Your friend was kinda cute.”

Race just stared. “He’s not my friend. And no he wasn’t.”

“Ah yes, I’m sorry, the lovestruck looks you were shooting him all night must have been simply platonic. Forgive me.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Davey said, smiling smugly. “Because without me you would have no ride home.”

Race sighed. “Okay, he was cute. But he was just being friendly because I was drunk and he felt like he had an obligation to help me…”

He trailed off, noticing for the first time the numbers, written in bold black ink, on the inside of his forearm. The handwriting was so messy that he had to squint, but it was very clearly a phone number, and a name –he leaned in close to see it by the streetlights outside Davey’s car- _a note._

**ur p cute. call me xx –Spot**

And if Race grinned all the way back to his house, well, that was no one’s business but his own, now was it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm @to-the-giant-furniture-wall on tumblr come say hi


	8. Sprace + the spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "heard a scream and thought you were getting killed but it was just a spider" –sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i accidentally made what was supposed to be a short funny fic a short sort-of-funny, sort-of-feelsy fic
> 
> -an autobiography 
> 
> yeahh sorry
> 
> parties suck when you can't eat food and you're the socially awkward teenager on her laptop in the corner of the room THAT YOUR PARENTS INTRODUCE AS THE SOCIALLY AWKWARD TEENAGER ON HER LAPTOP IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM
> 
> here goes nothing 
> 
> -byrd

~

“Do you need help?” Race asked as Spot unloaded the last of the boxes out of the trunk.

Spot scoffed. “Spot Conlon doesn’t _need help._ ”

Race crossed his arms.

“No, seriously, babe,” Spot said, leaning around the boxes in his arms to peck Race on the lips. “I’ve got this.”

“Yeah, yeah, famous last words,” Race muttered as he slammed the trunk of Spot’s car closed and followed him into the apartment building.

Four floors later, Race presented the key to his apartment and let himself in, holding the door open for a Spot laden down with boxes. They kicked off their shoes and took off their coats and began sorting boxes, taking them to the rooms that they belonged in, and then began unloading the contents of the boxes.

They began the unpacking process in the kitchen, bringing out silverware and plates, and when they finally finished in the kitchen, Spot paused, and Race looked to him for what to do next.

“I need to get some shit out of our room,” he said, running a hand through his hair.“Can you start on the living room, and I’ll join you in a second?”

Race nodded and maneuvered around the piles of boxes until he reached the living room. He began to open boxes, setting things on the couch or coffee table. One box was solely his and Spot’s collective movie collection, which he put on the shelf under the television with care.

It had been maybe ten, fifteen minutes tops when Race heard a scream so loud that it must have been one of pain or death. No decent human being should make that sound.

“Spot?” he called, jumping up from the box he’d been crouching over. He dropped the two movies in his hand back into the box and sprinted for the bedroom, where he was sure he would find Spot dead on the ground, in a pool of his own blood, the killer crouching over him, or already on the hunt for Race—

“Spot!” he cried, as he burst into their room, prepared to kick some ass.

What he found was not a killer, nor any blood, but a tiny black spider ambling across the floor. Spot had jumped onto a pile of boxes and was perched high above the ground, watching the spider’s every movement carefully with pure panic written all over his features.

“Oh my god. Oh my _god._ A spider, Spot?” Race asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

Spot’s eyes didn’t leave the tiny bug. “Kill it, Race,” he whispered. “Please kill it.”

Race sighed and stomped on the spider until he was sure it was dead. Then he grabbed a tissue, wiped the thing off the ground, and threw it in the trash.

“All better?”

Spot made a noncommittal noise in response, slowly letting himself down from the top of the pile of boxes.

“It’s gone, Spot. You’re fine.”

Spot nodded.

“It couldn’t have hurt you. You know that, right?”

“It could have,” Spot said. “It _so_ could have.”

“It’s like ten times smaller than you.”

“ _So’s an effing grenade!”_ Spot cried. “I just…” He shuddered. “Don’t like them, okay?”

“Four years of dating,” Race said, awe creeping into his voice, “and I don’t learn about your arachnophobia until _now?_ ”

“Yeah, you’re a shitty person,” Spot said. “We got that part.”

“Watch it, Conlon. I killed that spider for you.”

Spot closed his mouth. “Yes you most certainly did.”

“Hey,” Race said, gentler now, because Spot was clearly pretty shaken up. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“No I’m not,” Spot growled, wiping furiously at his eyes, as though he was angry at them for existing. “I’m effing pathetic, that’s what I am. The Terror of the East Coast, afraid of bugs. Imagine that!” He laughed bitterly.

Race came over so that he was right beside him and took his hand. “You see this?”

Spot looked at his ring finger as Race traced over the silver ring glinting there. “Yeah?”

“You know why that ring is there?”

“Because you couldn’t afford gold?”

“You’re real funny,” Race snapped, then kissed his cheek. “It’s _there_ because I love you. Lots. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And for what it’s worth-” He kissed him again, on the lips this time, then said against Spot’s mouth, “-I don’t think you’re pathetic.”

Spot smiled and kissed Race again. This one lasted longer, and left Race feeling breathless when they finally pulled apart.

“Ready to finish unpacking?” Spot asked.

“Sooner we get done, the more time we have for kissing,” Race agreed, and let Spot lead him back into the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah in case it wasnt obvi- they're engaged and goshdarnit they are the cutest flipping engaged couple to ever walk the planet 
> 
> and i need some more coffee
> 
> i must venture into the unknown (downstairs) amidst horrible beasts (party guests) to retrieve the antidote (coffee) to my ailment (dead exhaustion)
> 
> im so funny
> 
> -byrd


	9. Sprace + lunch table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You started sitting by me at lunch because I’m alone at my table but we never talk to each other” sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mornings are terrible, ungodly things
> 
> *glances at clock: 10:45am*
> 
> teRRIBLE UNGODLY THINGS
> 
> *sigh* here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

~

Spot didn’t even look up when the other kid plopped down beside him at lunch.

He didn’t have the most desirable seat in the lunchroom- it was a table in the corner of the cafeteria, just far away enough from the windows that the sunlight didn’t reach, and at least a table away from any other people.

He liked it like this. Secluded, out of sight, desolated, because the first week of school he’d tried to put up with the people at his lunch table and it had ended in a bloody nose and Spot’s unofficial ban from that table that was only supposed to last a month or so but he’d just extended because he didn’t want to deal with any more assholes.

So no, he didn’t have the best seat in the cafeteria. There were plenty of empty seats around him if a person wanted to sit alone, which clearly meant that this boy who had dumped his stuff right beside him did not.

Spot didn’t feel like dealing with this shit right now, so he ignored the guy. Maybe if he conveyed that he didn’t want company, the kid would leave.

It didn’t happen. He stayed there all throughout lunch, minding his own business, eating his food, and when the bell rang, he packed up his stuff, just the same as everyone else, and followed the crowd out.

Spot narrowed his eyes. Maybe he’d been dared to sit there by his friends. Maybe he was just bouncing from table to table, or under the delusion that Spot needed friends.

Whatever the case, Spot didn’t expect to see him there again the next day.

But five minutes into lunch, he reappeared, setting his things down again and beginning to quietly eat, just as he had yesterday.

Again, he didn’t speak a word, and in return, Spot didn’t say anything, either.

In his class right after lunch, Jack sidled up to him with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“So my little birdies have been telling me fun stories about Spot and the cute new guy sitting together at lunch,” he drawled, and Spot resisted the urge to smack him.

“You need to check your sources,” he snapped, “because we aren’t _sitting together,_ and he’s not even that cute.”

As if he would know. He hadn't even looked the boy in the eyes yet.

Jack had just snorted and found his seat as class began.

~

Somehow, Spot hadn't been surprised to learn that the guy was new. It made sense. No one else in their right mind would willingly, not-on-a-dare, sit with Spot Conlon, because Jack and the rest of their friends had a different lunch block and Spot had this nasty habit of beating the shit out of people he didn’t like.

So he tolerated the kid sitting with him for an entire week before finally questioning it.

For the first time, he actually watched the guy as he came over and _hot damn,_ Jack had been right. He was _attractive_.

“Why are you here?”

The guy’s fingers froze on the buckle of his lunchbox. “What?”

 _Admittedly, I could have worded that better._ “I mean sitting here. With me. Why?”

“I… didn’t think you minded,” the guy said. “You’ve never said anything before.”

“I _don’t_ mind,” Spot agreed, “but you didn’t answer my question. Why did you choose to sit with me?”

“Because I have no friends?” The guy winced. “Wow, that made me sound like a loser.”

“You’re voluntarily sitting with one of the biggest rejects in the eleventh grade,” said Spot dryly. “You’re already a loser in my book.”

“Honored.” The guy stuck out a hand. “I’m Race.”

Spot eyed the outstretched hand warily. “For real? That’s your name?”

“That’s my nickname,” he said.

Spot shook his hand. “Excellent. I’m Spot.”

“Are you messing with me?”

“Nah, that’s my nickname too,” Spot admitted.

Race narrowed his eyes at him, probably trying to determine if Spot was kidding or not. He must not have found anything suspicious, because he grinned.

“I figured sitting with another loner was better than sitting alone,” Race said, and, alright, Spot could see the logic in that.

“I wouldn’t be sitting alone, except that I can’t stand any of my potential options,” Spot said.

Race nodded thoughtfully. “Jack Kelly told me about how you gave that one guy a bloody nose.”

“ _Jack_ told you? How do you know Jack?”

“He was my guide for my first week here, he said he’s a friend of yours? Anyways, he told me to sit with you on my first day,” Race said, unzipping his lunchbox.

 _That son of a bitch._ “Oh he did, did he?”

“Mmhmm,” Race hummed as he opened a bag of chips. “He’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, he’s a peach.” Spot managed to avoid hissing on the word _peach._

He confronted Jack about it in his next class.

“So where do you get off sending me charity cases to babysit during lunch?” he growled.

Jack had the audacity to fake a look of confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m _talking_ about Race, the new guy you sent to my table to keep me company.”

“Why does that bug you so much?” Jack asked, puzzled, and Spot opened his mouth to answer, then shut it just as quickly.

He couldn’t think of any decent reason to be mad about Race crashing his solitary lunches. Race had been respectful of Spot’s desire for silence up until today, and when he had talked, he had been more or less polite. Spot couldn’t think of why he would be angry about it.

So he shut up. And didn’t bring it up with Jack again, or with Race the next day.

Because he didn’t mind Race sitting beside him. Not at all.

And Spot had begun to watch Race, too, the quick dart-around of his eyes before sitting down each day, the unsure way he always studied Spot as he made his way over to the table, even stupid things like the fact that he always opened his chips first but rarely ever finished them.

He found out two months later that the observations hadn't been one-sided, when Spot had to stay after during his class right before lunch, and when he arrived to lunch late, he found Race standing beside the table. _Waiting for him._

“You didn’t have to stand there,” Spot said, as he took his seat.

Race shrugged as he sat, too. “You always sit down first. It’s like tradition. It’s our thing.”

Spot would be lying to himself and the planet if he said that those words didn’t send a jolt up his spine.

That was the moment, looking back on it, that he first began to realize just how screwed he was.

Because a few days later, he was describing his table partner to someone and used the word “friend.”

Because suddenly he was studying Race’s (very attractive) features instead of what he was doing.

Because maybe his heart did a little gymnastics routine whenever he saw Race’s familiar red backpack weaving his way through the hallways.

Because when Race was out sick, for the first time in half a year, Spot sat alone, and the entirety of the lunch block was spent pretending he didn’t desperately miss Race’s cocky grin.

And when Jack learned about these feelings (unwillingly, Spot was drunk or on his way to it), he just grinned and said something like, _“Finally._ ”

The next day, as the bell rang and the lunchroom packed up to go to their next class, Race slipped a piece of paper into Spot’s bookbag right before he could zip it up, requesting, in a serious tone, that Spot not look at it until he got to class.

Spot reluctantly agreed, and when he entered the classroom, he practically ripped his bag off his back, searching for the little note.

~

Jack wasn’t sure what Spot had seen in his backpack, but if Race had followed Jack’s advice, then he had a vague hunch of what the note said.

All he saw was the ear to ear grin that split Spot’s face as he read the note, then the way Spot looked around carefully and killed his smile. Determined not to let anyone know.

Jack just laughed quietly to himself and turned away so that Spot didn’t see his (probably very suspicious, scheming) smile.

And if the next day, after lunch, _the block where Spot and Race saw each other,_ Spot came to class beaming brighter than the sun, well, Jack certainly, most definitely, didn’t go up to him to gloat.

Because what kind of a friend would that make him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has gotten a lot more kudos than i expected???? i just wrote these for fun on tumblr and decided to put them here too and ???
> 
> ?????
> 
> ???????????????????????????????????????
> 
> seven people liked this what is life
> 
> hey i have three more fics on here (two newsies, one les mis) and you should go check them out 
> 
> hinthint winkwink
> 
> -byrd


	10. Sprace + "I love you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanted to say “I love you” for the first time without stuttering, but that failed.” Sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey guess who's back
> 
> merry christmas eve to those of you who celebrate it!
> 
> and to those who don't, happy december 24th
> 
> (starts singing rent in my head)
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

 

~

“Hey, Race.”

Race looked up from his phone at his boyfriend, who was sitting on the couch opposite him. Spot was actually watching whatever was on, but Race had lost interest about half an hour in and had pulled out his phone.

“Yeah?”

Spot opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shrugged, already turning his attention back to the television. “Nothing. Never mind.”

~

“Ra-ace,” Spot called over the noise of the bar, blasting music and people laughing and talking.

“Present,” Race sighed. He had spent his night watching his friends get progressively more and more drunk, giggling like idiots, chugging beer like water, some of them (most of them) kissing someone.

And Race would have been in much the same state had he not been the designated driver for tonight, a fact he had whined about for some time before agreeing.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” Spot yelled.

Race internally sighed, because he loved his boyfriend, he really did, but he was going to lose his mind if he heard one more drunk realization about the universe and its many functions.

“Save it, dude. You can tell me tomorrow,” he called back, knowing full well that Spot wouldn’t remember a word of this conversation in the morning.

Spot still looked troubled. “But I’ve got to…”

He seemed to lose his train of thought, shook his head, and downed another sip of his beer.

Race shook his head and returned to watching his drunk friends, wondering how he was going to wrestle them all into Jack’s van at the end of the night.

~

Race let himself in to the apartment, laden down with bags and bags of groceries, and dropped them all on the kitchen counter.

“You could’ve called me, babe,” Spot said, although he made no move to get off the couch to help. “I would’ve helped you carry all that shit in.”

“Didn’t need any help,” Race muttered, looking down. There were at least twenty bags on the counter.

“What, you’d rather break both your arms than go back for more?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Race said, emphasizing the word. “It’s a matter of _honor,_ Spot.”

Spot just laughed, returning his attention to his book. “You’re insane.”

Then he looked up, a serious expression on his face. “Race.”

 _Oh, no._ “Yes?”

“I-I have something to tell you,” he said, sitting up and turning so that he was facing the kitchen.

Spot Conlon was a menace, and a terror. He didn’t show emotions half the time, and one look from him would send any sane man ducking for cover. He once beat someone within an inch of his life for hurting his little sister, and refused to apologize afterwards. Spot was _terrifying._

Except now, he looked terrified.

“Race, I think I-I really love you,” he whispered.

Race froze with one hand halfway to a grocery bag. “ _What?_ ”

“I really… I really love you, Race,” he said, even softer now, and Race spun around to face him.

Spot had never said that to him before. Race had said it, a few weeks ago when Spot surprised him on his birthday with a weekend-long road trip. The first night, laying together on the hood of Spot’s car, under the stars only half-concealed by the clouds, Race had whispered it in Spot’s ear, along with a _thank you_ and a kiss.

But Spot had never said it back.

And now he looked on the verge of a panic attack.

“Dammit,” he said. “I meant to say it… I didn’t mean…”

“You didn’t mean it?” Race asked, slightly hurt.

“No, _no,_ God, of course I meant it. I love you so, _so_ much. But I didn’t mean to tell you like this.” Spot gestured to their positions, to the groceries still sitting on the counter. “I meant to make it big. I wanted to do something amazing, and then profess my love for you. I wanted it to be _special.”_

“Oh, Spot…” Race came around the couch, sitting beside his boyfriend. “You want to know something?”

Spot turned to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Special’s great and all, but this?” Race indicated their cluttered apartment. “This is _real,_ Spot. This is our life, screwed-up, hilarious, random mess that it is.”

Spot tilted his head, considering it.

Race kissed his cheek. “And _that_ is what makes it so special.”

Spot looked at him. “I really did mean it, Race. I love you.”

“I know,” Race said, grinning.

“Oh, pulling a Han Solo now, are we?”

“You’d make an amazing Leia,” Race snickered.

“Damn right I would,” Spot growled, and kissed Race for real, bringing his hands up to fist in Race’s hair and making his boyfriend gasp loudly into Spot’s mouth. The kiss lasted a good minute before Race pulled away, breathing heavily.

“I love you too, you know,” he whispered.

Spot’s bright red, thoroughly kissed mouth broke into a grin and he leaned in to peck Race once more on the lips. “I know.”

“Oh, you _bastard,_ ” Race sighed, and, laughing, let his boyfriend pull him in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey you all should check out my other fics because most of them are fics that belong on here but i was super proud of them and was like "YYOOO these belong as stand-alones"
> 
> yes
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, and my tumblr is @to-the-giant-furniture-wall
> 
> *waves*
> 
> -byrd


	11. Sprace + bar fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “i’m fightin this person and they shoved me into u im sooo sorry- oh hey you’re cute- oH MY GOD UR KICKIN ASS MARRY ME!!! PLEASE!!!!” sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have been gorging myself on cow tales and trying to convince myself that Christmas is not, in fact, over
> 
> *sings loudly* my track coach is gonna killlllll meeee
> 
> here have some sprace with a SUPER CRAPPY RUSHED ENDING
> 
> ps has anyone read the miss peregrine series bc i need someone to fangirl with 
> 
> -byrd

~

Spot ducked another fist swung towards his head and threw a punch that didn’t make it to its target. His opponent, a big, burly, definitely drunk guy who needed a few lessons on _not being an asshole,_ grabbed his hand in midair and flung it aside, and Spot went staggering.

Logically, someone should have stepped in by now to break the two up, but seeing as they were in a seedy little shithole in one of the worst parts of the city, Spot wasn’t all that surprised. The bartender had loudly shouted at them to take it outside, but when they hadn't obeyed, he had just shrugged and served his next customer.

And the other people inhabiting the bar weren’t doing much to break Spot and his opponent up, either. Some were watching, or cheering them on. Others were too drunk or didn’t care enough to even acknowledge the fistfight quickly escalating in the corner of the bar by the pool tables.

It had been all the other guy’s fault, really. He should have known better than to bet against Spot in a game of pool, and he really needed to work on being a sore loser several hundred dollars and multiple games later, when he accused Spot of cheating and took a swing at his face.

Spot was an alright fighter (he had to be; with his good fortune at bar games, he got a lot of angry losers), but this guy was being stupid and reckless, unafraid of hurting anyone or anything in his mission to cause Spot pain.

And that was dangerous.

So it was completely inevitable when Spot eventually went flying into someone else, but that didn’t make it any better.

When his vision stopped being red and blurry, he groaned and realized he was lying on the ground, and someone was on top of him. His wrist was on _fire,_ and he could feel a throbbing lump forming on his head.

“Sorry,” he muttered, as the person got off of him and reached out a hand to help him up. “I’m _really_ sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

He stuttered to a halt as he got his first good look at the guy he’d been thrown into, because _damn._ He’d been trapped underneath the single most attractive person he’d ever laid eyes on, and now he looked like a total asshole.

His apologies tripled in number and volume until Hot Guy put up a hand. “You’re fine,” he  said. “This isn't the first time it’s happened. You’re good. But what about _him?_ ”

Spot had forgotten all about the person who’d flung him across the bar in the first place, but there he was, the ass, advancing on them, cracking his knuckles as he pushed people out of the way.

“Oh, great.” Spot straightened and flexed his wrist, wincing at the pain. It was sprained; possibly broken, and he wasn’t going to be punching anyone else anytime soon.

“What did he do?” asked Hot Guy. “What made you two want to kick each other’s asses so bad?”

“Ah, he’s just a sore loser,” snorted Spot. “I beat him in a game of pool. I beat _everyone_ in pool. And he couldn’t take the humiliation.”

“That _sucks,_ ” Hot Guy said, and Spot internally deflated, thinking that this was just one more uncaring ass who would now turn around and go back to his drink. He’d been wrong. Hot Guy was just like all the rest. Only hotter.

Which was completely not helping his focus, dammit.

Spot vaguely wondered how badly the drunk would hurt him once he realized Spot couldn’t fight back, and if this hot stranger would call for help when Spot got beaten black and blue.

Spot’s drunk opponent staggered towards them, looking a lot more intimidating now that Spot knew he couldn’t punch to defend himself. He put up his hands to shield his face (a feeble attempt, he knew), but as he braced himself for a blow, he heard the impact of a fist finding flesh.

The hit he had been expecting onto his face never came, and he looked up in alarm to see that Hot Guy had just punched the drunk asshole in the face.

His jaw dropped open in shock and he only had time to form the beginning of the word _What_ when Hot Guy yelled gleefully, “Duck!” and Spot hit the floor without question as the drunk charged at Hot Guy with an angry, animalistic roar.

When Spot returned to his feet, leaning against the bar for balance, he found that Hot Guy had just absolutely _nailed_ the drunk in the gut, and now the asshole was swaying dangerously. One more hit from Hot Guy (a beautifully executed punch, if Spot did say so himself), and the drunk went stumbling to the ground.

Hot Guy stood over him. “You done?”

The drunk man spat something unintelligible that Hot Guy apparently didn’t like. He kicked him in the side. “I said, are you _quite_ finished?”

He gurgled something else and his eyes closed.

“Alright, guys.” The bartender had finally taken notice. “Time to go.”

“Yessir.” Hot Guy came back over to Spot, who was watching the man on the ground, looking for any signs of movement.

“You didn’t _kill_ him, did you?”

Hot Guy snorted. “No. I don’t need anything else on my record. He’s just knocked out, that’s all. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Spot didn’t argue. He followed the guy out of the bar and out into the chilly night air.

Hot Guy turned to him. “Are you alright?”

Spot moved his wrist. Sprained, maybe. But not broken. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Good.” Hot Guy breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m Race.”

“That’s your real name?”

“No.” He looked Spot in the eyes, daring him to challenge it.

Whatever. “Spot.”

“Pleased to meet you. You’ve got some moves, I see.”

“But none half as badass as you,” Spot argued. “You scared him shitless. Did you see his face before you knocked him out?”

Race laughed and it probably shouldn’t have made Spot’s stomach lurch like it did, but _damn_ Race had a great smile.

“So we got kicked out of the bar,” Race said, surveying the bar in question. He turned to Spot. “Want to go see how many others we can be forcefully ejected from?”

“What, like together?” Spot asked.

Race laughed again. “Why not? C’mon, let’s go.”

And he took off down the street.

Spot, after only a moment of hesitation, laughed and ran after him.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come and give me prompts i love prompts i take prompts for just about any fandom (that im in and know crap about) and just about any pairing in said fandoms (with a few restrictions)
> 
> dont let the cows get you, kiddies
> 
> -byrd


	12. Sprace- "I'm not blushing"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re hiding under the blanket because you’re blushing?” sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here *shoves fic forward* i am not happy with this but take it anyways
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

 

~

“Spot?” Race called. He ran a finger along the shelf of movies, waiting for his boyfriend’s reply.

“Yeah?”

“What movie should we watch tonight?”

Spot came into the living room. “Something good,” he said.

“Thanks. Really. That clears it up.”

“Let’s watch _Star Wars_ ,” Spot said, crouching beside Race. “The fifth one.”

“The _real_ fifth one, or the one that was _released_ fifth?”

“Shut up, you. _The Empire Strikes Back._ You know what I meant.” Spot surveyed their vast collection of movies. “Only question is, where is it?”

“ _I’m_ not the one who decided to organize them by _color,_ Mr. It-Looks-Better-This-Way,” Race said, with a pointed look at his boyfriend.

“Shut up,” Spot said again, his ears turning pink. “It _does_ look better this way.”

“Aw baby, are you _blush-ing?_ ” Race crooned.

“I don’t blush,” Spot snapped.

“Tell that to your ears.”

Spot just snorted.

“I’ll find the movie. You go make popcorn,” Race said, lightly shoving Spot out of the way.

“Extra butter?” Spot asked, pausing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Is that even a question?” Race asked, still fully engrossed in finding the movie.

“Extra butter it is, then,” Spot said, smiling and entering the kitchen.

~

Later, when the popcorn was popped and _Star Wars_ had been found and put into the DVD player, Race brought all the pillows and blankets out of the bedroom. The two of them settled together on the couch, Spot curled into Race’s side. This made it possible for Race to have an arm around his boyfriend and gently run his fingers through Spot’s hair, making Spot sigh happily and make those amazing noises that, in more coherent times, he would _totally_ deny was purring. (It was definitely purring.)

The movie was amazing (of course it was amazing, it was _Star Wars),_ and they made it all the way  up until the final moments of the movie. Race began to sit up, stretching, but Spot pulled him back down to his side.

“Don’t go yet,” he murmured sleepily. “This is the best part.”

So Race stayed, and watched as, onscreen, about to be led to what very well might have been his death, Han Solo turned to face Leia once more.

 _“I love you,_ ” Leia called out.

Han nodded. “ _I know._ ”

Spot sighed happily and buried his face in Race’s side.

Race just stared at him. “How have we been dating for this long… Hell, I’m pretty sure I’ve watched this movie with you before. I _know_ I have. How has it been this long, and I am _just now finding out_ that you are a _hopeless romantic_?”

Spot made a noise of protest, face still pressed against the side of Race’s chest. “Am not.”

“Dude, I can feel your face burning against me. You’re totally blushing.”

“I don’t _blush_ ,” Spot growled, and then, as if to prove Race’s point, he put the blanket over his head.

“Oh my _God,_ are you kidding me?” Race said through his laughter. “Are you hiding under the blanket because you don’t want to admit you’re _blushing?_ ”

“’M not blushing,” came Spot’s muffled voice from under the blanket.

Race rolled his eyes. “It’s not a bad thing, dude. And I think it’s adorable.”

“I’m not _adorable,_ either.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot,” Race said, as the closing credits began to roll onscreen. “You’re a ferocious lion who is incapable of feeling human emotions.”

“Stop teasing me,” Spot whined, flopping backwards onto the couch, blanket still over his face.

“Okay, pissy baby,” Race said. “You gonna come out and help me eat the rest of this popcorn?”

Somewhat reluctantly, Spot sat up and pulled the blanket off his head. He helped himself to a handful of popcorn, still glaring at Race.

“You know,” Race said, lowering his voice and scooting forward, so that his mouth was right next to his boyfriend’s ear, “that was such a stupid reason.”

“What’re you talking about?” Spot asked around a mouthful of popcorn.

“I mean,” and now his voice was low and growling, and he could see the effect it was having on Spot, “I could give you something _much_ better to blush about.”

“Oh my _God,_ ” Spot shrieked, shoving Race away and turning bright red in the face once more as Race dissolved into laughter.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, come cry with me/yell at me about newsies (or les mis, or hamilton, or musical theatre in general) on tumblr
> 
> @to-the-giant-furniture-wall
> 
> -byrd


	13. Sprace- Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “you’re mine. You hear me?” sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thiiiiiissss accidentally turned into a super short bucket of angst and fluff
> 
> -an autobiography, by byrd
> 
> happy new year!
> 
> here goes 
> 
> -byrd

 

~

Race awoke to someone crying out.

He sat up, and when the cry came again he found that it was Spot, right beside him.

“Spot,” he whispered, but his boyfriend must have been dreaming. His eyes stayed squeezed shut, but when he whimpered, Race’s heart damn near broke.

“Spot, wake up,” he hissed, poking him. He should’ve known that it wouldn’t do any good. Spot could sleep through a nuclear war, which was great and all when Race worried about disturbing him when he crawled into bed at ungodly hours, but not so much when Spot was suffering through his frequent nightmares.

Like now.

“Spot!” he said loudly, and Spot’s next sound got cut off as his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright.

“Race!” he cried out, then seemed to come back to himself. “Race?”

“Right here,” Race said, putting an arm around his boyfriend. “I’m here, you’re okay.”

“No, ‘m not, I’m _not,_ ” Spot said, and even in the dark Race could tell he was whipping his head from side to side, looking for Race. “Where are you?”

“Here, I’m here, you’re fine, Spot. You’re okay. I promise.”

There was silence as Spot caught his breath and Race rubbed soft circles onto his bare shoulder. Then Spot whispered, “You promise?”

“I do, I swear it, Spot. We’re both fine, see?”

 “Race…”

Race maneuvered them so that they were both lying down once more, facing each other, and took Spot’s hands in his. “You’re safe, Spot.”

“Promise?” Spot asked again.

“Listen to me,” said Race. “You’re mine. You hear me? I would go through hell and back before I let anything hurt you. You know that, right?”

“’M sorry,” Spot mumbled.

“Don’t ever apologize, Spot. _Never._ You’re fine.”

“I love you,” whispered Spot sleepily as he gripped Race’s hands tightly. Race could imagine that he was closing his eyes, his long lashes fluttering before they finally shut.

He waited a few minutes, until he was sure his boyfriend was asleep, then he kissed his forehead gently.

“Love you too,” he said, and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr is @to-the-giant-furniture-wall
> 
> by now if i dont specify just assume that you can blame emily for all of these its her fault not mine
> 
> (and she's @officialjackcrutchie go check her out quality blog right there)
> 
> -byrd


	14. Jackrutchie- what if we get caught?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But what if we get caught?" jackcrutchie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo
> 
> (it's me)
> 
> if this one's awful you can blame it on the fact that i wrote it last night
> 
> on the notepad of my iphone
> 
> as i was running on a treadmill
> 
> bc the idea wouldnt get out of my head
> 
> (plz send help)
> 
> enjoy
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

  
~

“Jack,” Crutchie whispered. “Jack!”

“Mm,” Jack murmured, preoccupied with checking around the corner for anyone coming down the hallway.

“Someone’s going to see us, idiot,” Crutchie hissed.

“No they won’t,” Jack said, turning back to his boyfriend. “Everyone’s too busy drinking and being happy for the new couple.”

“And your best friend? Don’t you think he’ll notice when his best man isn’t in the reception hall anymore?”

“Race?” Jack snorted. “He’s been attached by the lips to his new husband since they said ‘I do.’ He won’t notice. Or care. We won’t get caught.”

“You sure?” Crutchie asked, and he’d be lying if he said that the thought of sneaking around didn’t send a thrill up his spine.

“I’m sure,” and suddenly Jack was tugging him by the front of his shirt into a messy kiss that made Crutchie gasp into his mouth.

“Jack…” Crutchie protested, pushing Jack away no matter how much he wanted the kiss (and oh he wanted this kiss so much). “But what if we get caught?”

“We won’t get caught,” Jack said again, maneuvering him so that he was pressed against the wall. His crutch was digging into his side and somehow he couldn’t find it in him to care because Jack looked absolutely gorgeous in the dark hallway, the light filtering from the reception hall illuminating half of his face and making his sly grin twice as hot.

“God, Jack,” Crutchie mumbled, lunging forward to kiss him again. This kiss was longer, lips sliding against lips, and Crutchie sighed happily as they separated once more. He looked at Jack, only to find that his boyfriend was looking at him intently.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Jack said.

“You’re looking at me weird,” he whispered, kissing the tip of Jack’s nose.

“No, ’m not,” Jack mumbled, speech slurred by drink or by exhaustion. “You’re just… really gorgeous in that suit, you know?”

“Not half as gorgeous as you,” Crutchie said, smoothing his hands down the suit in question. “Katherine did a good job on picking these out.”

“’S a good thing she was in charge,” Jack murmured sleepily, looking at Crutchie through heavily lidded eyes and damn that should not been as hot as it was. “Otherwise, this whole wedding mighta gone t’ shit.”

“I would argue, but there’s no point. The bachelor party alone reminded us not to let Spot and Race be in charge of anything. Ever.”

Jack shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”

Crutchie kissed his cheek. “They’ll be missing us, I’m sure. We should get back.”

“Can’t we make out a little more?” Jack pleaded, sticking out his lower lip.

Crutchie sighed. “I suppose,” he said, and, grinning, leaned forward once more.

They kissed, and kissed, and kissed. Crutchie’s crutch slipped from under his arm and clattered to the ground and he didn’t even notice. Or care. His arms wound themselves around Jack’s neck as Jack’s hands found Crutchie’s hips and Crutchie was fairly certain that he could die happy now.

They were finally forced apart for real when someone behind them crowed, “Ay loverbirds!”

Jack detached himself from Crutchie’s mouth and turned his head to find Race, who was grinning wolfishly at them from the doorway to the reception hall. As they watched, Spot came up behind him, slipping an arm around his waist, and surveyed the scene, too.

“Told you they’d be out here,” said Race, smirking at his husband.

Spot pecked him on the lips. “Never doubted you, babe.”

Crutchie gagged. “Ew. Married people.”

“Ay Crutch,” said Race. “Zip it.”

“Yessir.” Crutchie wasn’t stupid enough to keep pushing Race, especially on his wedding day.

The blast of music from the other room suddenly dropped as a new song started, and Spot gasped.

“It’s our song, it’s our song, we’ve got to go dance!” he cried, pulling Race back into the reception hall after him.

“Should we join them?” Crutchie asked.

“Hmm…” Jack considered it, then kissed him- another long, drawn-out kiss that made Crutchie feel like he was melting.

“Sure,” Jack said with a cocky grin, once they’d pulled apart. “Why not?”

“Lead the way,” Crutchie laughed, as Jack retrieved the fallen crutch and handed it to his boyfriend and together, they made their way back to the reception party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always welcome prompts and hellos and yelling on my tumblr
> 
> @to-the-giant-furniture-wall


	15. Sprace + bookstore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked for your help getting a book off the top shelf and you laughed at my taste and called me a nerd so I shoved you into a table of nonfiction best-sellers and that’s how we both got banned from the quirky community bookstore -sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo
> 
> i have nothing creative to say
> 
> no funny stories
> 
> no life achievements
> 
> i'll be more interesting next time lol
> 
> for now, enjoy
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

 

~

“Let me get this straight,” Davey said, crossing his arms. “You got _banned_ from the most _open_ and _friendly_ bookstore in the city, run by the most _easy-going_ woman I have ever met?”

Race studied the cracks in the sidewalk and tried to staunch the flow of blood coming from his lip. “Possibly.”

“ _Possibly?_ I don’t believe this.” Davey turned to Jack. “Go back inside and apologize to Medda. Take Crutchie with you. Make sure she knows that Race here didn’t mean any harm.”

“She’s not that easy-going,” grumbled Race, as Crutchie and Jack went back into the bookstore. “She gets pissed too easily.”

“ _Too easily-_ Race, she puts up with _Jack_ on a daily basis. Please continue making your case why she is not the most chill person you will ever meet.”

Race considered it. “Point taken.”

“So how exactly did you get kicked out by the sweetest, most considerate-”

“I get it, Dave.” Race sighed. “So I was looking for a book.”

“I would assume that this would be your principal reason for going into a bookstore, yes. Go on.”

“Don’t be a jerk. Anyways, I found this book, but it was too high for me to reach, and all of a sudden this godsend of a giraffe comes along-”

“By _giraffe_ I assume you mean _normal-sized person who just happens to look tall because I am a midget._ ”

Race glared at Romeo. “You aren’t helping me finish my story any faster, ass.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t look very sorry. “Go on.”

“And so I ask him to get this book down for me, and he’s like ‘oh yeah, sure, which one?’ And so I point to this book, and he _effing laughs._ He laughed at me and my reading choices.”

Romeo looked amazed. “What book was it?”

“None of your business.”

“Was it _Fifty Shades of-_ ”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Davey said, in his best Mom Friend voice. He turned to Race. “And _you,_ don’t answer it. I’ve come to the shocking conclusion that I’m no longer going to invest myself in your bad choices.”

“It wasn’t-” Race began, offended, but Davey cut him off.

“Can it, Higgins. That doesn’t explain why you got kicked out.”

“Well,” Race said, a sheepish expression creeping onto his face. “After he laughed at me, I may have pushed him.”

“Here we go,” Davey groaned, as Romeo looked at Race, awestruck.

“Really?” he asked, a grin on his face.

“Really,” Race said. “And… it may have been into a display case. Of bestselling nonfiction books.”

Davey buried his face in his hands. “And let me guess… this poor guy didn’t do anything.”

“Wrong. He laughed at me.” Race crossed his arms. “And then after I pushed him he punched me.”

“Oh my _God_ no wonder you got kicked out.” Davey raised his head from his hands and sighed deeply. “Well, Jack and Crutchie are apologizing for both of you. Where’s the other guy?”

“He left.”

“Left?” Romeo looked disappointed, like he had wanted to meet this mystery guy.

“Left. Deserted me. Fled the scene. Whichever you prefer.”

“Aw, baby, you sound so bitter about it,” came a snarky voice from behind them, and the three boys spun around to find a guy standing there, arms folded, a very bored expression on his face.

Romeo sucked in a breath. “ _Damn,_ Race. You lucked out on this one.”

“Shut up,” Race hissed back, because _of course_ he had noticed that the guy was gorgeous. It was one of the reasons he’d asked for help; he did have _eyes,_ after all.

The guy didn’t seem to notice. “And to be fair, it _was_ a weird book you wanted me to get.”

“Asshole,” Race spat. “Where did you go when I was getting chewed out by Mum here?”

The guy shrugged, unconcerned. “I don’t enjoy being lectured. I came back to apologize to Medda.”

“You know Medda?”

“Who doesn’t? She’s super cool. Probably wouldn’t have thrown us out if we hadn't been acting like little shits.”

“I _told_ you,” Davey muttered.

“Shut up,” Race growled. “I should come with you. To say sorry. For disturbing the peace. Or something.”

“Yeah, you should,” said the new guy. “But not _with me._ Wait until I come out so you don’t embarrass me further.”

And with that, he disappeared into the bookstore to apologize to Medda, leaving Race, Romeo, and Davey standing outside on the sidewalk.

Finally, Romeo spoke. “Well, he’s a charmer.”

Race snorted. “Now you see why I pushed him. He’s a jerk.”

“Which still doesn’t excuse you taking it out on the peace and quiet of poor Medda’s shop,” said Davey with a sigh.

“I’m _going_ to apologize,” Race muttered. “Just as soon as His Highness is done, because apparently he can’t even tolerate being in the same _store_ as me. This is a free country!” he shouted at the bookstore.

“Be that as it may,” said Davey firmly, dragging Race out of the way as the front door opened and two girls came out, each carrying new books, “you _did_ get kicked out, and it’s probably for the best that you and he aren’t in the same confined space anymore.”

“Also,” pointed out Romeo unhelpfully, “the building won’t respond to your declarations of liberty.”

“Zip it, Rome.”

They seated themselves on the bench outside, silently coming to the conclusion that the asshole had been right, and it was not advisable for him and Race to come into contact anymore, and waited. Jack and Crutchie came out, hand-in-hand, a book tucked under Crutchie’s arm and a pleased expression on his face.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Davey asked, scooting over to make room for them on the bench.

“He begged me for it,” Jack said.

“I begged him for it,” Crutchie confirmed, absolutely shamelessly.

Davey sighed. “Fair enough. Lord knows how many books I’ve bought against my better judgement.”

“Where should we go now, guys?” Jack asked.

“Not so fast,” Davey warned, and Race groaned, having just jumped up, eager to leave. “Race still has to apologize to Medda for being an ass in her store.”

“Why didn’t he come with us?” Crutchie asked. “We could have all knocked it out at once.”

“Well, _someone_ just _had_ to make an enemy, and now we’re waiting for _him_ to finish talking to Medda before risking it,” said Davey, with a pointed look at Race, who glared at the ground and sat back down.

“Who, Spot?” Crutchie asked.

“Oh, wonderful,” sighed Race. “He’s got a name. You know him?”

“It’s a nickname,” said Crutchie. “And yeah, I know him. Spot’s in my art class. You say he called you out on your reading choice, then punched you? Really?” He paused. “No, wait. Actually, I can see that.”

“He must be a freaking delight in class,” grumbled Race. “If he’s like this in public.”

“He’s alright. Doesn’t take crap, which is understandable, just sometimes he goes a little overboard.”

“A little,” snorted Jack. “Hence why there are now thirty copies of _The Unified Nations of World War II_ lying on the ground.”

“You mean no one picked them up?” Race cried, getting to his feet again.

“I mean, Medda was busy throwing you out, and none of her employees must have noticed,” said Davey.

“And none of the customers cared enough,” sighed Romeo. “Should we go clean it up?”

“No need,” said a voice, and they all turned to see Spot coming out of the bookstore. “I got it.”

“Suck-up,” Race muttered.

“Yeah, yeah,” Spot said. “Your turn to go apologize, ass. Make sure you tell Medda whose fault it was for _pushing me._ ”

“Screw you,” snapped Race, moving past him into the shop.

He found Medda in the back of the bookstore, manning the cash register as a man bought his books. When the customer had left, she turned to him, and before he could say anything, she held up a hand.

“I know,” she said. “Your friend was just in here and explained the whole thing to me. You don’t need to retell it.”

Race opened his mouth to protest (surely Spot had distorted the story so that he was the victim and Race was the perpetrator of the entire thing), but Medda’s next words stopped him.

“He explained how he accidentally startled you and then tripped into the display case, so don’t go making him out to be the bad guy, now.”

 _Tripped? He startled me?_ Spot _had_ used some creative liberties in telling the story, but not to frame Race, for some odd reason.

He closed his mouth, confused. _Why would Spot do that?_

Medda mistook his silence for agreement. “Your friends are waiting outside, Race. You can go. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. Oh!” she said suddenly, and grabbed a book from the shelf behind the register. “I have something for you.”

Race took the book and looked at the cover in astonishment because _this was the book he had wanted in the first place._ The one that had caused this whole ordeal.

“Medda, I can’t accept this,” he breathed. “I’ll pay for it, honest, but-”

“Hon, it’s paid for already.”

“You didn’t have to-”

“I _didn’t._ ” Medda turned back towards the register as another customer approached. “Your friend did. The one who was just in here. He bought it for you.”

“Jack?”

“I’ve known Jack since he was in diapers. I would have used his name. It was the one I didn’t know. He came in after Jack and Charlie.”

_What?_

It didn’t seem possible, but-

“Spot bought me a book? Why?”

“Heck if I know, hon,” Medda said unconcernedly. “Maybe he thought it would make up for earlier. Now scoot. I’ve got customers.”

Race left the bookstore in a daze once more, although this time, rather than clutching his busted lip, he cradled his precious new book carefully to his chest.

~

It was another day before he found the note, written on Medda’s shop’s stationary and tucked inside the book’s front cover.

Messy handwriting that took Race a moment to decipher confirmed what he had already figured out- that Spot was the mystery book buyer.

_Hey asshole, I guess it was dumb to laugh at your book choice. I can’t judge, man. I read some pretty weird shit, too. So here. This is to make up for punching you. (I hope it effing hurt.)_

_And hey_

_If you’re ever interested._

_Because you’re pretty hot. And even if you do have bad taste in books, you’re a half-decent fighter._

_Spot xxx_

There was a phone number scrawled at the bottom of the piece of paper and  circled.

Race snorted out loud and made to crumple up the note _–who did that son of a bitch think he was?-_ but then he paused.

Because Spot wasn’t all that bad on the eyes.

And he _had_ sort of apologized. There was definitely an apology hidden somewhere underneath the _I’m-not-sorry-for-punching-you-I-hope-it-hurt._

Not to mention Spot had bought him his book. No matter that Spot thought it was nerdy and weird, he’d still fished out however much cash the book cost and bought it.

Just for Race.

So instead of trashing the note, as he originally planned on doing, he smoothed it out and examined it.

Then he did trash it.

But if he may have, oh, _possibly_ memorized a certain seven digits at the bottom of the note.

And then, _hypothetically speaking of course,_ if he _had_ committed the number to memory, then theoretically, the next step would be putting said number in his phone.

Right?

~

Spot would have been lying to himself and the planet if he tried to deny the little flutters he got in his chest every time his phone rang.

For two days, he never left his phone alone, constantly checking it to make sure he hadn't, like, accidentally silenced his notifications.

When the call from **Unknown Number** came, he pounced on his phone, then waited two more rings.

Just in case.

He couldn’t sound _too_ eager.

“Hello?” he asked, trying to keep the squeak out of his voice.

_“Hey, is this… Spot?”_

“The one and only. Who’s this?”

“ _My name’s Race. I may have… attacked you at the bookstore a few days ago?”_

Spot couldn’t help the ear to ear grin that spread across his face. “I remember.”

_“I wanted to thank you for the book.”_

“Not a problem.”

There was a pause, and then-

“ _So if you were still interested, I’m going to the same bookstore again to help Medda out tomorrow. If you wanted to- I don’t know. Maybe?”_

Spot had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from giggling out loud like _an effing schoolgirl._

_Get a grip._

“Sure,” he said, as nonchalantly as possible. ”That’d be great.”

“ _And while we’re there, you’ll explain to me what kinds of things you read.”_

“What?”

“ _I mean, if my choices are so terrible, surely you must have some better suggestions.”_

Spot snorted. “Dude, I don’t read. Just, as a general rule.”

“ _I. I met you. In a bookstore.”_

Dammit.

“Dammit,” he grumbled. “Okay, so I don’t read _much.”_

_“Bullshit. I’ll figure out what you like to read eventually. I bet you’re secretly a huge nerd.”_

“What?” Spot cried. “I am _offended._ ”

“ _Nah, you’ve got that whole aesthetic going for you. Cool guy, hates everything, secretly a huge dork.”_

 _“_ I’m beginning to regret not punching you harder.”

“ _You wouldn’t believe how many variations of that threat I’ve heard today alone. But, hey, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow?”_

Spot was fully aware that he was smiling like an idiot and somehow he couldn’t find it in him to care. “I’ll be there.”

“ _Bye, nerd._ ”

“Bye, asshole.”

Spot hung up the phone and laughed.

Possibly like a maniac.

He didn’t care.

In just a few days, he’d gotten in a fight, made an enemy, and then agreed to go on a date (date? Friendly outing?) with said (former) enemy.

He couldn’t wait.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves*


	16. Sprace + elevator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw you trying to hit the “door close” button in the elevator but I made it in and then I pushed every single button to make you later for work, but now we’re stuck in this fucking elevator as it stops at every single floor and I don’t know what to say other than “you started it” –sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAH this was super fun to write
> 
> but NO ACTUALLY this happened to me someone legitimately pulled a Buddy the Elf on me and pressed all the freaking buttons 
> 
> i ended up taking the stairs it sucked
> 
> i was ticked man
> 
> but here you go have a lovely time reading it
> 
> enjoy
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

 

~

“Wait! Hey, you! Hold the door!”

Race looked up as another guy came sprinting down the hall towards the elevator and internally groaned. He was already late, and with his luck, this person would need to go to one of the top floors, making him even later.

“Wait for the next one!” he yelled, and hit the “close door” button.

Too slow. He hit the button too slow. As they began to shut, the guy came hurtling into the elevator, making it in the nick of time, and this time Race groaned out loud.

“You’re going to make me late,” he said.

“ _I’m_ going to make _you_ \- You almost left me in the effing hallway!” the other guy said, panting hard. Race noticed he wasn’t carrying a backpack, or any sort of bag at all, save for a small brown paper bag that Race was willing to bet held a lunch. “You’re one to talk about being late. I’ve got places to be, too, you know.”

“Fine. You know what? Fine.” Race was _not_ in the mood to deal with assholes. Not now. “What floor?”

But the guy didn’t answer. He stepped forward and pressed his own button, which –Race sighed in relief- was relatively close to Race’s.

Then he pressed the button next to that one, on the next floor up. And the button beside that. And the one beside that, until the entire row was lit up.

“What’re you _doing?_ ” Race demanded, because if he hadn't been late before, he definitely was now.

“Payback.” There was something like a triumphant smile on the guy’s face.

“What the _hell?_ What for?” Race cried, lunging forward to smack his hand away from the buttons, but the guy still managed to light up another row of buttons before turning to him.

“Because you’re an ass. You were planning on shutting the elevator door on me, making me late, so now I’ll show you what it means to truly be _late_.”

“You’re going to be just as late-”

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he said defiantly, and turned back to the panel of buttons.

When he reached three rows of lit buttons, lit floors to go to, Race figured he’d stop.

He didn’t think… he couldn’t even _imagine_ what prompted him to press all the buttons.

As in, _all the buttons on the panel of buttons._

_Every single floor in the building._

“You’re a terrible person,” was all Race could think to say when the guy stepped back with a satisfied expression on his face.

“Oh, I know. It must suck to be in the presence of such an _asshole,_ ” the guy spat.

Race knew that that was a reference to his jerkish behavior, trying to close the door before the guy had arrived, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was going to be _so late,_ and his boss was going to _kill him_ …

“So we’re stuck here-” The door opened on a floor with no one on it, stayed open for a few seconds, then closed again. Race supposed this was going to happen a few hundred times before he eventually got off. “-Until we go to all these floors.”

“Pretty much.” The stranger didn’t look very sorry. In fact, he looked quite smug.

“Man, I am _late._ ”

“And I’m Spot.”

“Pardon?”

The guy stuck out a hand. “The name’s Spot. Nice to meet you, Late.”

“You’re hilarious. Truly.” Race didn’t accept the guy’s hand. “I’m not telling you my name.”

“Why not?”

As if to emphasize Race’s frustration, the doors opened and shut again.

“ _That’s_ why, you bitch,” Race snapped. “I’m _late._ ”

“Serves you right, for being an ass.”

They were silent for another three floors. Another three repetitions of the door opening and closing, with Race and the stranger (Spot) looking at the doors, at the ground, at the poster advertising the next show coming to the theatre next door, anywhere but at each other.

At the next floor, as the elevator dinged cheerfully and opened the doors to admit no one, Spot sighed.

“Kinda crazy that no one needs an elevator, huh?” he asked. “I mean, no one else has gotten on yet.”

“Yes, how _crazy,_ ” Race snapped. “I think it _just might be_ because everyone else is busy _working,_ like I’m supposed to be my boss is going to _murder_ me…”

“Actually, I think there are labor laws against unfair treatment in the workplace,” Spot said thoughtfully.

“Shut up, you,” Race growled, shifting further away from Spot in the elevator, but there was only so much space in the tiny car. The furthest he could get was a few feet.

Another few floors passed in relative silence, the number of lit buttons on the panel becoming fewer and fewer until at last, there were only a few more floors until Race’s.

“Finally,” he sighed. “Where’re you getting off?”

“I’m not sure...” Spot surveyed the list of floors. Then, he stepped forward and pressed-

“Oh, you _son of a bitch,_ ” hissed Race, watching as three more rows of buttons lit up under Spot’s quick fingers.

“What?” asked Spot innocently, then threw back his head and cackled.

Honest-to-goodness _cackled._

And Race certainly wasn’t watching the curve of his neck as he tilted his head back, or secretly thinking that when he wasn’t sneering, Spot was actually majorly hot.

Because Spot was an asshole.

A beautiful asshole, who was kind of a genius, but an asshole.

(And he probably wasn’t even gay.)

Race felt the elevator shooting back up several floors, and groaned out loud. “Seriously? I’m going to get off and take the stairs.”

“Ah, but you can’t do that,” said Spot with a cheeky grin, and he really was three times more attractive when he didn’t have a shit-eating smirk on his face. “See, the stairs are closed. They’re painting the stairwell. So you could go all the way down the hall to the stairs, but it would be a waste of a trip, _and_ I would hold the elevator for you so that you’d be forced to ride with me.”

“And why the _hell_ would you do that?”

“Just to be a shit,” said Spot, sounding completely unashamed about it.

Race sighed. So taking the stairs was out.

Which meant he was trapped here.

With an absolute jerk.

A hot jerk, but a  jerk nonetheless. A jerk that may have cost him his job. 

“You really are awful, you know that?” he snapped.

“I know,” and although Race wasn’t looking at him, he could tell that Spot was grinning.

“In all fairness, you started it,” Spot said, as the elevator dinged and opened once more.

Race grit his teeth. “ _I did not._ You were the one that decided to push all the buttons.”

“Yes, and in doing so…” and suddenly Spot was _right there,_ breathing in his ear. “I’ve pushed all _your_ buttons, too.”

Race jerked away, forgetting he was right against the wall of the elevator and smacking his head on the cold metal. “Christ. Go away, freak.”

Spot snickered, but he backed up, as Race asked.

Race tried to control the pounding in his chest as Spot watched him from across the elevator because _goddamn_ that two-second encounter may have been the hottest thing to happen to him all week.

They stood, once more, in an awkward silence as the elevator travelled, dinging cheerily every floor, until it reached the point where if Race heard _anything_ of that stupid ding’s decibel level again, he would pull out a gun.

_Well, this sucks._

Because how on earth was he supposed to explain to his boss that the reason for his tardiness was that he was stuck on an elevator with an absolute _ass_ who insisted on pressing every single button twice?

His boss would laugh him off the floor- and right off of his employment roll.

“I’m going to be _late,_ ” Race said, as if he hadn't made this point crystal clear already. “My boss is going to _fire_ me.”

“He won’t fire you,” said Spot unconcernedly. The elevator dinged and Race bit back the urge to cuss.

“How do you know that? Do you know him?” Maybe Spot was a man on the inside. Maybe he knew Morris and could help Race out by putting in a good word (and possibly a confession, too). Maybe Spot wasn’t completely useless after all.

“I don’t,” laughed Spot, and Race’s train of thought halted abruptly.

Well, never mind.

“I don’t know him,” snickered Spot. “And I don’t know he won’t fire you. I’m just trying to reassure you so you don’t sue my broke ass.”

“You’re doing a shit job.”

“Probably,” Spot said with a shrug.

“And how do you work here if you’re broke?” Race probably sounded like a rich asshole. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. “This is a pretty high-class office.”

“I don’t work here,” snickered Spot.

Race closed his eyes and had to concentrate very, _very_ hard on not yelling. “What do you _mean, you don’t work here?_ Why are you even here?”

“Had to drop something off for my roommate,” said Spot, making a face as he held up the bag, very determinedly not meeting Race’s eye. “He left his lunch at home.”

That sounded incredibly familiar… One of Race’s friends on the floor below him always, _always_ forgot his lunch, and _his_ roommate always had to bring it, but Race had never actually met said roommate…

“Are you Sean?” he asked, almost scared of the answer.

“It’s _Spot,_ ” snapped Spot. “Why do you ask?”

“Dude, Crutch- Charlie, _Charlie,_ is one of my friends. He _always_ leaves his lunch at home. Are you the mysterious roommate that always brings it to him?”

Spot looked like he wanted to deny it, then the anger faded from his face and he looked down. “Yeah. I-yeah, that’s me.” He looked up, and his bright eyes met Race’s. “I guess that makes you Tony.”

“W-what?” Race spluttered. He hadn't been expecting Spot to pull the _real-name_ card like that, but he guessed it would sound awfully weird if Crutchie told his roommate that his friend was named _Race._

“Your poker face _sucks,_ Tony,” Spot said with a cheeky smile, obviously having cleverly deduced that it was indeed Crutchie’s friend Tony standing before him.

“No it- yeah,” Race said, deciding against telling Spot about the hundreds of gamblers that he’d bested who all thought that his poker face was _amazing_ , and instead agreed. “Yeah, it does.”

“You aren’t on Crutchie’s floor,” Spot said. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Race agreed.

“Because I know everyone on his floor. I see them so much, I practically know their life stories,” said Spot.

Then he leaned forward and once more, Race tried to back away and ended up hitting his head on the wall. “But I don’t know _your_ story, _Tony._ ” Spot’s warm breath was on his neck and it was _terribly_ distracting. “What’s going on with you, hmm?”

“Piss off,” Race said, but there was no heat behind his words.

He glanced up and saw that they were two floors from his own, and he almost pointed it out, then decided against it. He didn’t need to give Spot any more reason to push any more buttons.

Whether they be his or the elevator’s.

When the elevator finally stopped on Crutchie’s floor with a _ding!_ that, to Race, had never been such a beautiful sound, Spot _actually made like he was about to get off._ Right before he let the doors close, he stuck a hand in between them and pulled them back open, sticking his head through.

_Dammit._

“Here to take me to even more floors?” Race asked snarkily.

“No,” Spot said, and that was a very dangerous smile on his face. “C’mere.”

Race cautiously took a step forward, so that his face was right up in Spot’s, and Spot grinned.

“Wanna know a secret?” he whispered. “Come closer.”

Race figured it was a trick, or a prank of some sort, but he was curious, so he leaned forward.         

He wasn’t expecting Spot to _kiss_ him.

It was a quick peck on the mouth that lasted less than a second, but Race still reeled backwards, shocked. “What the _hell!_ ”

Spot burst into laughter. “Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. “I had to. Also…” He pushed his head even further in the door, so that  if the doors decided to close, he’d be in serious danger of having his head cut off.

Which was suddenly a very appealing thought.

“Wanna know another secret?”

“I swear, if you kiss me again…” Race warned.

The elevator beeped a warning, signaling that the doors were about to close for real, Spot’s head be damned, but Spot still maintained his leisurely speed of talking, slow and easy.

“I won’t kiss you again,” he promised. “The thing is, the stairs… they weren’t being painted today.”

“ _What._ ”

“As far as I know, they haven’t painted those stairs in twenty years okay gotta go bye!” Spot yelped, and removed his head from between the doors as they closed with a _whiish_ of finality.

Race just stood there as the elevator car climbed one more floor, mind racing and lips still tingling from the kiss.

The _kiss._

Spot, a total stranger, not to mention his best friend’s _roommate,_ had kissed him.

Not to mention he’d lied about the stairs being painted to keep Race on the Elevator Straight To Hell as Spot had made Race increasingly more and more uncomfortable.

_Why?_

Race barely registered the doors opening on his floor until the warning beep sounded, and he bolted into action so he wouldn’t be trapped in the metal death car any longer.

~

Crutchie sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

It had been a long day of work and he was looking forward to going home, ordering takeout, and pigging out on the sofa, maybe watching something on TV with Spot.

As he was packing up, his office door banged open and his friend Race came through.

“Hey, Tony,” he said with a grin.

“Sup,” Race responded, although it sounded more like a grunt than a response. “I’ve got a question.”

“I would assume that would be why you were here.”

“Don’t be mean. I _want_ to come and visit, you know I do, but I never have-”

“Time.” Crutchie nodded. “Understandable. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me about your roommate, Sp- _Sean,_ I mean,” said Race. “What’s he like?”

Crutchie bit back a smile and reached into his pocket, drawing out the tiny slip of paper Spot had given to him just in case this very thing happened.

“Here. This should speak for itself,” he said, passing it over.

As Race walked out with a quick, “Thanks!”, already busy putting the new number in his phone, Crutchie pulled out his own phone and selected his conversation with **[** **Spot].**

 **[You]** it worked, man. success.

 **[Spot]** what worked now?

 **[You]** what do u think

 **[Spot]**!!! really?

 **[You]** i’d check my phone if i were u

 **[You]** should be a msg coming in any second now

~                                                                                                      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which things are (sort of) resolved in the end and i would not want to get on crutchie and spot's bad sides bc they are scheming little craps.
> 
> jk i love my sons
> 
> my smol sons
> 
> i need so much sleep you have no idea
> 
> what am i doing instead
> 
> crying over dead revolutionaries
> 
> newsies or les mis or hamilton?
> 
> yes
> 
> dont let the cows get you, kiddies
> 
> -byrd


	17. Jackcrutchie- you broke in and I tried to kill you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I heard a noise in the middle of the night. I took my baseball bat and OH MY GOD you’re my neighbor and your kitten escaped I’M SO SORRY THAT I ALMOST KILLED YOU JackCrutchie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yellooooooooooooooooooooooo
> 
> guess who had free time in bio today to update this
> 
> thats right
> 
> this nerd right here
> 
> but ok teenage boys are literal idiots if any of you could drive to my school and save me it would be much appreciated
> 
> thank
> 
> anyways
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

 

~

Jack first met the cute guy that lived in the apartment upstairs at 3am, when he tried to kill him.

The noise that alerted him to someone else in the living room was odd, a sort of _thud, click. Thud, click._

“Are you _kidding me,_ ” he muttered, because it was late and he had just cranked out another sketch for his portfolio. He was ready to _sleep,_ not to get murdered by a creepo sneaking in his window.

So it was with a heavy sigh that he grabbed the bat that he kept beside his bed and crept out into the hallway, past the tiny kitchen, into the living room. He smacked the wall, looking for the light switch but only succeeding in hurting his hand, not to mention alerting the other person to his presence.

Because now he was sure that there was someone else in the apartment- he could hear their breathing hitch in their throat when he hit the wall, and then the noise again: _click, thud,_ like the person walked with a cane, or was dragging something heavy behind them.

Another awkward fumble towards the wall finally turned the light on, and if the sudden blinding lamplight that flooded the room startled Jack, it scared the other person shitless. They scrambled backwards, tripping and landing on their rear on the ground, and instinctively put up a hand.

“Please don’t hurt me,” they said, and Jack took a closer look, still not willing to lower the baseball bat.

It was a boy, one knee pulled up to his chest and the other twisted to the side at a nauseating angle. He had curly hair and freckles and light eyes that he was currently shielding from the light with one arm. In the other arm there was a small spotted furball that Jack deduced in the next second to be a kitten, curled up in the crook of the boy’s elbow.

 _Dammit._ The boy was too cute to hit with the bat.

Oh. And he supposed the kitten was, too.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Jack demanded.

The boy flinched away, like he was still scared Jack was going to hurt him (as though Jack could _really_ hurt that adorable face, _really_ ).

“Please don’t hit me,” he whispered again, and Jack set the bat against the wall.

“I’m not going to hit you,” he said. “Now will you tell me what you’re doing in my apartment at-” he checked the time on the stovetop clock, “-Three fifteen in the morning?”

In answer, the boy shrugged. “Stripes got away.”

“Stripes.”

“My cat!” he said happily, holding the thing up for Jack to see.

“You named a spotted cat… Stripes,” Jack said slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was aware that this maybe wasn’t the most pressing of issues right now, but it bugged him. _Why would he have done that?_

“Why not?” the boy asked.

“Couldn’t you have named it… I dunno, Spot or something?”

“No, that’s my roommate’s name.”

“Is your roommate another cat?” Jack asked because, hey, it seemed like a fair question.

“No, and he’d probably kick your ass if you suggested such a thing,” the boy said, and made like he was going to stand. He stumbled, leaning against the armchair. His knee turned oddly, and Jack felt something inside his stomach lurch.

“What happened?” he asked.

The boy seemed to think that he was referring to why he was in his living room. “Well, I left my window open, and Stripes went out onto the fire escape-”

“Your roommate or the cat?”

“The cat. Keep up,” the boy said impatiently. “ _Stripes_ is the cat, _Spot_ is the roommate.”

“Of course. Silly me,” Jack said, leaning against the wall and running a hand through his hair. “Please continue.”

“So _Stripes,_ my _kitten,_ went out onto the fire escape and I could see her, so I was like, ‘oh she’s fine,’ and then I looked down at my phone for two seconds, that’s it, I swear, and when I looked back up, she was halfway down the fire escape stairs.”

“And she came down here,” Jack said, piecing it together. “And snuck through my window.”

“Yeah.” Now the boy looked slightly sheepish. “And I couldn’t just let her go, I mean, who _knew_ what kind of an asshole you were and what you would do to her-”

“I take offense to that. I’ll have you know that I _love_ animals.”

“-And so I figured I’d just slip in here, grab her, and hightail it out, but you don’t have a ledge on your windowsill like Spot and I do, and so I fell.”

“I see that,” Jack said, looking once more at the guy’s twisted leg. “Um, your leg. Did you hurt yourself?”

“Oh. Yeah,” and he didn’t seem surprised, his leg was _literally turned the wrong way why wasn’t he freaking out?_ “Car accident when I was little. Couldn’t afford the procedure to fix it, so now I walk with this thing,” and for the first time, Jack noticed the crutch on the ground. The source of the clicking sound, he’d be willing to bet.

“Are you okay?” Jack asked. “I mean, your leg.”

“It’s always like this. Some days it’s worse than others.” The boy shrugged. “But, hey, at least I can walk, right?”

“That is… shockingly optimistic,” Jack said.

“I’m a shockingly optimistic person,” he responded. Then, with the hand not supporting himself on the armchair, he offered a hand for Jack to shake, Stripes still nestled in the crook of his arm. “I’m Crutchie.”

“You’re not serious.”

A small smile graced his features and _dammit he’s even cuter when he’s smiling._ “Yeah, it’s a nickname. But it’s what my friends call me, so…”

Jack shook his hand. “Jack Kelly.”

Crutchie frowned. “How common of a name is that?”

“I… don’t know. Why?”

“Because there’s a Jack Kelly in one of my art classes at uni. Got in a fight at the beginning of the year?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Jack laughed, and then closed his eyes, trying to recall a boy with a crutch in his class, but nothing came to mind. He could at least confirm that Crutchie didn’t sit directly around him.

“I didn’t know you lived so close!” cried Crutchie. “We should walk together sometime.”

“We should do that,” Jack agreed tiredly.

It was 3am and he was having a _polite_ and _civil_ conversation with the ( _very cute_ ) boy who’d just snuck into his apartment. Wasn’t life amazing.

“I should-” Crutchie grabbed for his crutch and stood shakily, regaining his balance, still cradling Stripes. “I should get out of your apartment.”

Maybe that was a good idea, Jack thought. He wanted to keep talking to Crutchie, of course, but it was nearing 3:45 and Jack had class in less than six hours.

“You gonna be alright going up that fire escape?” he asked. “I mean, with your crutch and all.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Crutchie, smiling sweetly. “I’ll see you sometime, okay?”

“O-okay.” _Was he implying that he_ wanted _to hang out?_ “What’s your schedule look like tomorrow?”

“I’ve got class in the morning, but after noon I’m free,” Crutchie said. “I’ll call you.”

“I need your number.”

“It’s early,” Crutchie said, “and I can’t see straight enough to write it down. I’ll do it tomorrow morning and put it through your window, ‘kay?”

“Sounds good,” Jack said, and watched as the boy carefully, nimbly, made his way through the window and up the fire escape stairs, cat in one arm and crutch under the other.

He stood there in a daze for a second, listening to the last _thud, click_ as Crutchie slipped in his own window, in complete disbelief at what had just happened.

He’d come out of his room expecting to have to beat the shit out of a burglar. Instead, he met his upstairs neighbor and his cat, learned that they shared a class, and gotten the promise of a phone number tomorrow.

Amazing.

Jack waited another moment before turning out the light and going back into his room, grabbing the baseball bat on the way. He got in bed at long last, half-expecting to wake up and find that the whole thing had been a dream, that he’d just imagined Crutchie and Stripes and Spot or whatever the hell his roommate and cat were named.

The piece of paper he found the next morning, containing a phone number and a smiley face in loopy green writing, proved otherwise

Jack walked to class that day with a smile on his face so wide he must have looked like he was in terrible pain.

He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay i updated
> 
> idk when to expect the next one man
> 
> maybe during sprace week
> 
> beware
> 
> this is the last jackcrutchie one for a while bc i am sprace trash and this gives me an excuse to write even more 
> 
> yeah
> 
> -byrd


	18. Sprace- "my friend wants your number but screw that you're hot"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my friend sent me over here to give you his phone number cause he thinks you’re hot, but now I’m seeing you and here’s my number instead - Sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHOSE DAY OF BIRTH IT IS
> 
> THAT'S RIGHT
> 
> BYRD IS ONE YEAR OLDER
> 
> YEET
> 
> here. Enjoy. 
> 
> This was written on a crappy kindle with no autocorrect and no italics
> 
> while crying over lovely little losers
> 
> Bc I'm trash
> 
> Here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd tHE BIRTHDAY CHILD

 

“Damn.”

Race didn’t look up. “Do I want to know?”

“That is one hot guy,” Jack said instead of answering, craning his neck and once again proving his title as the master of non-subtlety.

“Didn’t think so,” Race sighed.

“Look at him, Race. Do you know him?”

Race rolled his eyes, set his phone down on the table, and twisted in his chair to see a guy, facing away from them, also on his phone.

“What I’m seeing is a whole lot of back,” Race observed. “And I can’t even tell if it’s a nice back, either, because he’s got a giant sweatshirt on.”

“Shut up, he’s gorgeous.” Jack still hadn’t taken his eyes off of the guy.

“Are you basing this off his… back?”

“No, I saw his face when he sat down,” Jack said, and then, as if struck by an amazing idea, he turned to Race. “Dude.”

“Present.”

“How much would I have to pay you to do me a favor?”

Race sighed, looking longingly at his phone but figuring it would be rude to pick it back up. “Depends. What’s the favor?”

“Will you go get his number for me?”

“No,” Race said flatly.

“Aw, Race-” Jack pleaded, but Race shook his head.

“Absolutely not. Go get it yourself, ass.”

“But I don’t want to…” Jack whined.

“Sucks to suck, Kelly.” Race turned on his phone to look at the time. “We need to go, anyways. Aren’t you meeting Kath at three?”

Jack made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a huff. “What if I paid you? Would you do it then?”

Race hesitated, because money was money, after all. “How much are we talking about?”

“A lot?”

“That’s not good enough.” Race was a betting man and damn it he took his bargaining seriously. “Give me a number.”

Jack pulled out his wallet and rifled through it. “All I’ve got is a twenty.”

“That’ll work. What do you want me to tell him?”

“That I think he’s hot and that he should call me.” Jack scribbled his number down on a napkin and handed it to him. “Here.”

“And if he’s actually a homophobic asshole and punches me in the face?”

“I’ll buy you ice cream. Now shoo.”

Race groaned and stood up, stuffing the napkin in his pocket and making his way across the food court to the guy’s table.

“Hey, you.”

Excellent conversation starter, Race. Next we work on addressing people properly.

In any case, it got the guy’s attention. He turned around, finally revealing the face that Jack had been fawning over, and Race suddenly understood the attraction.

He was seriously hot. Brown hair framed a face with narrowed eyes and an expression that was something like a sneer.

An attractive sneer.

Not the point. He was over here for Jack. His friend. Who had offered him money.

“Are you single?”

Perhaps a better question to ask first would have been ‘are you gay,’ but Race figured he’d knock out two questions at once. Killing two birds, and all that.

He fingered the napkin in his pocket as the guy looked him up and down, considering.

“Depends. Are you?”

'I’m not the one asking,’ Race should have said. 'This is for my friend. Not me.’

Instead, he found himself saying, “If the right person were to come along, yeah, I’m single.”

The guy nodded, then offered a hand. “I’m Spot.”

“Race,” murmured Race, shaking his hand. Then, perhaps against his better judgement, he leaned in close. “Wanna know something, Spot?”

“I- yeah, sure.”

“See that guy sitting over there?”

“Grey beanie?”

“Bingo. That’s one of my best friends, and he originally sent me over here to get your number for him.”

“Ohh…kay…” Spot said in confusion. “So are you-”

“However,” interrupted Race. “However. I’m seeing your face now, and it is quite a gorgeous face.”

“Damn right it is.”

“And so screw my friend,” Race said, grabbing a pen from his pocket and uncapping it. He grabbed Spot’s arm, and before he could ask himself what the hell he was doing, his phone number was on this boy- this total stranger-’s arm. “And call me. Please.”

Spot opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Suddenly terrified that he had totally screwed up, Race said, “Um, okay?”

“O…kay,” Spot said, closing his mouth and nodding. “Sounds good. And, uh, tell your friend sorry. You’re cuter, anyways.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it,” Race said, backing away and doing his best not to squeal because he was ordinarily pretty smooth in social situations but this very attractive human had just called him cute which changed the entire game and what was life.

He sort of awkwardly waved to Spot and rejoined Jack at their table, expecting an expression of outrage on his friend’s face. Perhaps he would yell, or get mad, or withhold the money from him. Race had, after all, just stolen his potential next date.

Instead, he looked… amused?

And suddenly Race became incredibly nervous. An apology was already on his lips (he didn’t regret meeting Spot, and he was still planning on taking him out should Spot ever call him, but he could apologize for being a shitty friend), when Jack spoke.

“Glad you got a date, Race.”

Race braced himself. “And?”

“I’m not giving you the twenty dollars.”

Okay, so maybe he deserved that. It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to whine about it.

“Aw, why not? I gave him a number. Just… wasn’t your number.”

Jack shook his head. “My poor, confused friend,” he said, with a look of pity on his face.

Race flinched, expecting a blowup, for Jack to start screaming. Maybe he’d leave him in the mall without a ride.

“Racetrack Higgins, I understand you were smitten with Mr. Perfect over there, but how do you mess up so badly you go to the wrong person for their number?”

Race blinked, because he hadn’t been expecting that. “Wait. What?”

Jack laughed and pointed. Sure enough, a few tables behind Spot was another kid in a sweatshirt, also not facing Jack and Race.

“You were taking about- wait. What?” Race said again, because what. He’d gone to the wrong guy?

Jack snickered. “It’s okay, I’ll get it later. I’ve got to meet Kath in ten minutes, and you’re waiting here to make sure he-” and here he indicated the guy he’d originally been referring to “-gets my number before I return.”

“What?” Race cried, because, honestly, he was a decent friend. He only messed up sometimes.

Like today.

He didn’t deserve this.

But when he opened his mouth to argue some more, Jack cut him off, saying, “You go and do that, and I’ll give you the money. And ice cream.”

Race shut his mouth and watched as Jack stood and walked out of the food court. Then he hurriedly got on his phone, not even doing anything, just staring at the lock screen.

Anything to avoid looking like a loner.

Only apparently he was a worse actor than he thought, because twenty seconds in, he recieved a text.

[Unknown number] u look like a poor lost puppy plz come sit with me

He looked up in alarm to see Spot looking over his shoulder at him, and, grinning, he stood, crossed to Spot’s table, where the boy in question was busy pretending he hadn’t been staring at Race, and plopped down across from him.

“I need help,” breathed Race. He gestured to the boy behind him. “I’ve got to get his number.”

Upon seeing the look on Spot’s face, he was quick to explain. “Not for me. For my friend. Actually for him, this time.”

Spot seemed to relax. “Oh, good.”

“So can you help me?”

Spot grinned and leaned forward conspiratorially. “But of course. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m excellent at picking up guys.”

“Shut up, you,” but Race was laughing. “So what’s the plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear that anon that sent me that message that was half encouraging and half threatening-
> 
> Thx fam. This wouldn't be done right now if not for your
> 
> Um
> 
> inspiration


	19. "I thought you were dead"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I thought you were dead" for jackcrutchie plss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings 
> 
> It is I 
> 
> Here with my crappy phone keyboard and crappy mobile ao3 layout and crap crap crap
> 
> yes
> 
> I'm not even going to make an excuse for this- it's not my best. 
> 
> but here. it's been taking up an unhealthy amount of my mental capacity for like two weeks
> 
> meh I'm not super proud of this one
> 
> but you know
> 
> here goes nothing 
> 
> -Byrd

~  
Jack crept into the apartment, closing the door without a sound behind him. If he was quiet enough, maybe Crutchie wouldn't notice. He was halfway through the living room when--

"Jack freaking Kelly."

Damn.

Well, never mind.

He turned slowly to see his boyfriend, leaping up from where he had been seated on the couch. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment, having left his crutch leaning against the coffee table, but he regained his balance and crossed his arms.

He looked pissed.

"Crutch, I can explain-" Jack began, coming around the couch to face him.

"You'd damn well better explain, you asshole. Where have you been?"

"I was-"

"Two days, Jack. You were gone for two goddamn days."

"I'm sorry, Crutchie, honest, I-"

"Dammit Jack," and on Jack his voice broke. "I was terrified. I thought-" He took a deep breath. "I thought you were dead, Jack. You scared the shit out of me."

"Crutchie..." Jack said, stepping forward hesitantly. His boyfriend didn't protest, so Jack put his arms around him gently.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered. He could feel Crutchie shaking, and something inside him twisted. He'd made Crutchie cry. This was his fault.

"I know," murmured Crutchie into Jack's chest. "I know. I shouldn't have snapped." He broke out of Jack's hug and kissed him lightly. "Just... Don't do that again, alright?"

"Alright," Jack whispered. "Alright, Crutch. I promise."

"Just... Next time you feel like that, talk to me," Crutchie said. "Shit, Jack, you scared me."

"I'm sorry," Jack repeated. "I really am."

Crutchie nodded, like this was satisfactory, and buried his face in Jack's shirt.

There was silence for a long time as they stood, Crutchie's cheek right up against Jack's heart, when finally Crutchie spoke.

"I want takeout," he murmured. "Will you call the Chinese place and get us food?"

"Me? Why do I have to do it?" Jack asked indignantly.

"Watch it, buddy. You owe me, big-time," Crutchie said, pulling out of Jack's embrace and half-heartedly poking his boyfriend's chest.

Jack laughed. "Alright. I'll order you takeout."

"You're the best," Crutchie sighed happily, returning to his former position, head tucked underneath Jack's chin. "Love you."

> "Love you too," Jack said, reaching for his phone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeet
> 
> I know I know it was hecka short sorry sorry
> 
> but 
> 
> in conclusion
> 
> yes


	20. "omgwrongnumber" Jackcrutchie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "omgwrongnumber" jackcrutchie
> 
> as requested by the lovely em

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE YOU GO EM
> 
> SORRY ITS SO LATE
> 
> IM TERRIBLE I KNOW
> 
> this may be awful and it may stray from the prompt and and and 
> 
> the sprace in the background became not so background and i am Not Sorry 
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

~

“Don’t even think about it,” Spot hissed as Crutchie’s phone buzzed with a new text and he started to reach for it. “No phones. No exceptions.”

“Except in the case of an emergency,” Race added from beside Spot.

“Nah, even then Spot would still find a reason to uphold the rules,” Mush commented.

“The rules are _law,_ assholes,” Spot snapped. “And besides, I didn’t come up with the, alone. We all did. We voted on them.”

“Can I retract my vote?” Race muttered.

“ _No_.” Spot’s tone was firm.

“This is injustice,” Mush grumbled into his bottle of beer.

“Shut up.” Spot tossed a piece of popcorn at him. “Crutch, it’s your turn.”

The four of them were sitting (or in Spot’s case, _lounging)_ in a circle in Race and Mush’s living room. It was Friday night, which meant Movie Night, a tradition stretching from their first week in the apartment complex. Spot and Crutchie, who lived in the apartment one floor below, had only recently become a part of it, but they were incorporated into the group as easily as ever.

The only rules of Movie Night were that there were no phones, and that they all had to agree on the movie (which was sometimes a problem in itself- some of them – _Spot-_ had weird-ass tastes in movies.

Only this morning, the DVD player, which had always been a… _special_ piece of machinery, decided to give out, taking the third _Star Wars_ DVD along with it, which Mush was still pissed about. They had tried everything, to no avail, and eventually it was decided that, in order to keep up tradition, they would still meet tonight, and instead of watching a movie, get shit-faced and have a party to mourn the loss of the stupid DVD player.

An excellent plan, except that Race and Spot should never, _ever_ be allowed to pick games for parties, _ever,_ and as a result of this lack of foresight on Mush and Crutchie’s part, they were now playing Truth or Dare. Because why not.

Crutchie sighed and readjusted his position. “Um, Spot. Truth or dare?”

Spot shot a glance at Race, who was preoccupied with getting the top off of his- what, second? Third bottle?

Maybe he thought Crutchie wouldn’t notice the heart eyes he was shooting at Race.

Crutchie noticed.

It was his _job_ to notice.

They were _roommates,_ for over a year now.

“…Truth,” Spot finally replied.

Crutchie racked his brains, alcohol slowing down his thought process. He could ask Spot a truly personal question, one he already knew the answer to…

But he wasn’t _cruel,_ for heaven’s sake.

“You should… you should tell us your favorite part of the year so far.”

“Boooo-ring,” Race called with a yawn, but Spot looked so relieved, Crutchie didn’t mind, and instead flipped Race off with the hand not cradling his bottle.

“My favorite part?” Spot frowned, thinking hard. “I guess… I liked going on that road trip with all of you.”

“That was _last_ year, dipwad,” Mush scoffed, but Race looked thoughtful.

“I mean,” he relented, “if the road trip extended through the New Year, doesn’t it technically count as this year?”

“Ugh,” Mush groaned. “Don’t take _his_ side. You’ll make his head bigger than it already is.”

Spot threw another piece of popcorn at him. “Shut up, you little shit. But, yeah. That’s my favorite part of this year.”

“Your turn, Spot.” Crutchie leaned back against the coffee table.

“Crutchie,” Spot decided, directing his gaze to his roommate. He punctuated each word with a pause, maybe for dramatic effect, although it may have just been his brain struggling to keep up with his mouth. “Truth. Or. Dare.”

Crutchie didn’t feel like answering any personally revealing or mentally scarring-in-any-way questions, so he quietly muttered, “Dare.”

And, hey, if they made him do something publicly indecent, he could always blame the beer later.

“Oh-ho,” laughed Race. “The Crutch is being _bold_ tonight.”

“Shut up,” all three of his friends snapped in unison.

“Dare…” Spot mused. He turned to Race. “What should we make him do?”

Race thought about it for a moment, face scrunched up in concentration, and then his eyes lit up. He leaned over and whispered something in Spot’s ear. At first, Spot didn’t look terribly excited, and then Race added something, and he laughed out loud.

“Alright, Crutchie,” Spot snickered, turning back to him. “ _You,_ my friend, are going to prank-call someone.”

Crutchie internally sighed. _It could be worse._

“…Of our choosing,” Race added.

_Or not._

“Here.” Spot had a shit-eating grin on his face as he pulled out his phone and unlocked it. “I’ll get the number ready. You’ve got to talk to whoever picks up in a…” He exchanged a look with Race. “A British accent, how’s that?”

Crutchie groaned. “Let’s get this over with.” He reached for the phone, to find a number already on the screen. He clicked on it, and waited as the dial tone sounded in his ears.

“Who is it?” he mouthed at Spot. “Or am I not allowed to ask?”

“It’s Davey.” That same grin was still on Spot’s face.

Crutchie decided he didn’t much like that grin, or what it could mean.

_Here goes nothing._

~

Jack almost didn’t want to pick up the phone when he saw that it was **[Spot]** calling.

It was Friday night. Friday nights were when Spot and his friends got _trashed,_ which usually had unfortunate consequences.

He shouldn’t pick up the phone.

And yet…

If one of those stupid shits had gotten themselves landed in the hospital, he wanted to be the first to know.

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, he answered his cell phone. “Yeah?”

“ _Hello?”_

_Real clever, Spot. Really couldn’t tell it was you through the (surprisingly convincing sounding) British accent. You know there’s such a thing as caller ID, right?_

Instead of voicing any of these thoughts aloud, he simply replied, “What do you want, Spot?”

Silence, and then, “ _Shit._ ”

 _That’s not Spot,_ Jack decided. The voice was softer, with no sharp accent that usually defined Spot.

“Yeah?” he tried again. “Who is this?”

“ _You’re not Davey.”_

“That would be correct.” Jack shot a glance at the person in question, asleep on their couch. “Um, this is definitely not Davey, but if you want, I can take a message-”

“ _Nope!”_ The person’s tone was hurried now, frantic. “ _Nope nope nope that is perfectly alright don’t even mention that I called. Is this… is this even Davey’s phone?”_

“Nah,” Jack laughed. “It’s Jack Kelly. His roommate.”

A muffled swear could be heard over the line, and then, “ _Oh my God. Wrong number, I am_ so _sorry.”_ Right before the person hung up, they said, “ _Spot Conlon, I’m going to kill you.”_

The line went dead.

Jack took the phone from up against his ear, studied it, and then shrugged, tossing it back onto the counter. He turned back towards the living room, where Davey was stretching.

“Who was ‘at?” he mumbled sleepily.

“I think Spot pranked another poor innocent soul,” Jack snickered.

“Oh.” Davey nodded in understanding. “It’s Friday.”

Jack made a noise of agreement.

“Who was it? Could you tell?” asked Davey.

“No New York accent. It wasn’t Spot. Or Race, for that matter, he would have tried Italian. I know for a fact Mush’s British accent isn't that dignified, so I don’t know.”

Davey considered it. “Could be Charlie.”

“Spot’s roommate?” Jack had never actually met the infamous “Crutchie,” only heard stories from the others. Based on the stories, he seemed like a perfectly decent person, but Jack had yet to meet him face-to-face.

“He had a, uh, soft voice, _damn_ good British talker?”

“That would be him,” Davey agreed. “You should go over and see them tomorrow. Come up with some excuse to say hello. I think you’d like Crutchie.”

“You know what?” Jack asked, thinking it over. “I think I would too.”

~

The knock at Crutchie and Spot’s door was followed almost immediately by a chime from Spot’s phone.

 **[Cowboy]** its me

_Excellent._

“Crutchie, answer the door,” Spot yelled from his position on the couch.

“Why do I have to do it? You’re closer. And I have cookies in the oven.”

“Don’t feel like moving. Please?”

“You’re lucky I love you,” muttered Crutchie, making his way past the couch to the front door.

Spot heard it open, and then-

“Oh. Shit. Hi.”

Crutchie sounded slightly panicked, and for a second Spot felt slightly guilty. Maybe the prank had gone a bit too far.

Then Jack responded, “Hi,” with a grin that Spot could hear all the way from his seat, and Spot thought, _never mind._ This was going to work out beautifully, he could feel it.

“I’m Jack. I think you may have… accidentally called me a few days ago?”

Spot bit back a snort.

“Yeah.” Crutchie sounded breathless, and, closing his eyes, Spot could envision his bewildered expression, looking up at the guy standing in his doorway.

Because Spot and Race knew what they were doing. Jack was popular, well-liked, and _hot,_ to put it frankly. Not to mention an all-around great guy. Perfect.

Spot listened to approximately one more minute of awkward conversation before deciding it was time to intervene.

“Ay, Crutch!” Spot shouted. “Maybe you want to _invite Jacky boy in!”_

“Oh,” Crutchie murmured. “Oh, right.”

Then to Jack, “Would you like to… Come in?”

 _God help these poor souls._ “Sometime today, Crutch!”

“Screw you, Spot!” Crutchie called back cheerfully.

A text buzzed in from Race.

**[The Ass] stop distracting them they need to meet & fall in love **

**[The Ass] and u arent helping**

**[The Ass] come on up mush and i are watching star wars**

**[You] again?**

**[The Ass] oh ur one to judge, ass**

**[The Ass] stop being a cockblock and come up**

**[The Ass] let them work shit out on their own**

Spot snickered, but Race was right. Jack and Crutchie wouldn’t do anything with him sitting right there.

As they came into the living room, Spot stood, stretching. “I’m going to Race’s.”

Crutchie’s eyes widened, and his face clearly read _don’t leave me here!_ but Spot pretended not to notice. “Don’t eat all my food, Jackass. Crutchie, don’t let him eat all my food.”

“Yes _sir_.” It sounded like an insult, spat out of Crutchie’s mouth as he stood, rigid, beside Jack.

Spot waved a hand dismissively, pocketing his phone as he made his way to the door. “Talk shit out. Discuss the weather, see if I effing care. Don’t let the cookies burn. And save some for me.”

**[You] he’s trapped. cookies in the oven. cute boy in his house.**

**[The Ass] we’re geniuses**

**[You] you’d better believe it**

When Race answered the door, he was grinning. “Come on. The second one just started.”

Spot followed him into the living room, where Mush’s laptop was set up on the coffee table, blasting the opening music. Mush, already seated, acknowledged Spot’s arrival with a slight nod, then directed his attention back to the computer screen, and the text scrolling across it.

~

**9:39pm**

**[Crutch] spot**

**[Crutch] spot help**

**[You] ?**

**[Crutch} I think I really like him help**

**[You] he’s still there???**

**[Crutch] no, ass**

**[Crutch] he left a few hours ago**

**[You] and let me guess**

**[You] you’ve spent these past few hours sitting on the couch**

**[You] having an existential crisis over your feelings**

**10:01pm**

**[You] …hello?**

**[Crutch] you can’t prove a damn thing, conlon**

**[You] so what’d you talk about?**

**[Crutch] I’ll never tell**

**[You] :/**

**[Crutch] but he’s taking me out for coffee tomorrow**

**[You] !!!**

**10:13pm**

**[You] success**

**[The Ass] spot u are literally across the room from me**

**[The Ass] txting me was not necessary**

**[The Ass] …**

**[The Ass] WAIT RLY**

**[You] our favorite cowboy is taking a certain someone out for coffee tomorrow**

**[The Ass] YES GET SOME CRUTCHIEEEEE**

**[You] we’re such good friends**

**[The Ass] true. crutch is lucky to have us**

**[The Ass] now get over here. i’m friggin cold, conlon**

**[You] you think anyone’s guessed yet?**

**[The Ass] ?**

**[You] about us?**

**[The Ass] nah, we’d be getting a whole lot more shit about it if anyone knew**

**[You] I think I prefer it that way**

**[The Ass] yeah**

**[The Ass] how long do you think itll take for them 2 figure it out**

**[You] idk**

**[You] want to bet**

**[The Ass] do you**

**[The Ass] do you even know me conlon**

**~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WANT TO KNOW SOMETHING COOL
> 
> I WROTE THIS ENTIRE THING AND I ONLY USED THE WORD "SAID" LIKE ONCE
> 
> ACCOMPLISHMENTS MAN
> 
> *waves*
> 
> *awkwardly moonwalks out*


	21. jackcrutchie- soulmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when you write something on your own skin, it shows up on your soulmate's, too- jackcrutchie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> byrd the nerd has returned, friends 
> 
> here's a little something i actually wrote a while ago and just never posted bc i am a lazy piece of crap
> 
> but yes
> 
> hope you enjoy!!!
> 
> here goes nothing

~

Jack jumped when the words first appeared on his inner forearm.

They were written in a neat, small handwriting. Easy to read. Even so, the shock of seeing it made it hard to decipher what it read at first.

_Friday- calc quiz_

It was a reminder, but not to Jack. To his soulmate- the person he was destined to be with for the rest of his life. His one true love. The person he was attached to by some magical connection through their skin… and it started around this age. For some of his friends, it had come earlier, but others were still waiting.  

Out of total curiosity, Jack picked up a blue ballpoint pen and drew a loop on the back of his hand. He had no idea where his soulmate was or who they were, but he knew that wherever and whoever they were, his ink was appearing on their skin.

He grinned and drew another loop.

Across the living room from him, lounging on the other couch, Katherine looked up. “What’re you _doing?_ ”

Jack realized how odd it must look- his grinning at his own hand as he scribbled circles on it.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just… Soulmate.”

“Oh.” Katherine returned to her textbook.

Davey frowned. “I mean… I’m happy for you and everything. But… why are you obsessively drawing on yourself?”

“And by default, them,” Katherine added.

Davey nodded in agreement. “They probably don’t appreciate you marking up their hands.”

“Especially because it doesn’t come off their skin until you wash it off,” Katherine laughed. “It’s great fun.”

Davey shook his head. “I don’t understand you people.”

“Shut up, you flaming asexual,” Jack grumbled, throwing a couch cushion at him.

Davey dodged it easily. “Those two things are _literally_ opposites, Jack. The very implications of the word _flaming_ directly contrast with that of the term _asexual_ and-”

“Shh,” Katherine crooned. “No more big words. I’ve been studying for three hours and my brain is leaking out of my ears.” She turned to Jack. “And I’ll remind you that I am ace as well, and in a _wonderful_ relationship.”

“But you aren’t ace-aro,” Jack pointed out.

“And Davey is. So?” she countered, fire in her eyes, and Jack could feel her rant coming from a mile away. “You’re categorizing us all the same again, ass. Not to mention you’re acting as though Davey is some clueless child. Just because he’s ace-aro doesn’t make him an idiot. Soulmates are social constructs, and who our soulmates are, or their preferences, or _our_ preferences, or whether we even _have_ preferences, don’t define who we are as people in the _least._ Don’t make me beat you up.”

“Again,” coughed Davey, and Jack chucked another pillow at him.

“Shut _up_!” He knew better than to insult them again, both for how Davey would take him down scientifically and Kath would take him down crudely and with no mercy.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually conceded. “I wasn’t trying to be insensitive.”

Katherine sighed. “You never are, Kelly.”

Davey nodded his acceptance of the apology.

“Hey, guys.” Katherine looked down at her wrist, attention caught by loopy handwriting scrawling itself across her arm. “Sarah wants to know if she can come over.”

Jack grinned. Since Katherine and Sarah had discovered that they were soulmates, they still used the writing-on-each-other’s-skin thing to communicate when neither of them felt like picking up the phone. Davey thought it was weird ( _“why would you write on yourself in ink when you could just text each other, which won’t be semi-permanent and won’t cause you to have to wash it off later?”)_.

Jack thought it was _great,_ and couldn’t wait to be able to do it with his soulmate.

That is, assuming he ever _found_ his soulmate.

“Is she prepared to either study with us or sit quietly and cause no distractions?” Davey asked solemnly, in response to Katherine’s question.

Katherine looked down as more words appeared in Sarah’s handwriting on her arm. “She says she’s got takeout she can bring.”

“Send the woman over!” Jack cried. As if to agree with him, his stomach growled loudly.

Davey sighed. “I guess there’s no avoiding it, huh?” He turned to Kath. “As long as she brings over a vegetarian option.”

“You aren’t the only veggie freak in our friend group, Davey,” Katherine hummed as she used a black pen to scribble out a response to her girlfriend on the inside of her forearm in her messy handwriting. _Reporter’s scrawl,_ she called it. ( _Chicken scratch,_ Sarah and everyone else called it.)

Jack looked down at his own arm, at the simple reminder written in the neat handwriting so unlike Katherine’s. _His soulmate._

He wondered what they were like. He wondered whether he would ever find them, and if he figured out where they lived, then how to get to them when he himself was a college student with no money and no passport.

At least he knew for a fact that they spoke English. Spot had panicked, flat-out _panicked,_ when a string of Italian appeared up his arm. Thanks to Google Translate, they learned that it didn’t translate to anything important, in fact it was something like a grocery list, but still. _Italian._ Spot didn’t speak Italian.

Jack’s soulmate spoke English, but he could live across the world. He could live in England. He could live _anywhere._ English could be a second language. _So many things could go wrong._

He squeezed his eyes shut. _Please, please, please let him be American. For that matter, let him live in New York. Please._

His phone buzzed beside him. He looked down at the screen to find **[king of ny]** had just texted him. Meaning that, speak of the devil, Spot was texting him. (And that Spot had gotten ahold of his contact settings again.)

**[king of ny] jack**

**[king of ny] jack help**

**[You] what do you need?**

**[king of ny] sm is writing on me again**

**[You] sm?**

**[king of ny] soulmate jack jfc get it together**

**[You] sorry. they’re writing? what’re they saying?**

**[king of ny] ur correct grammar is hurting me jack HURTING ME**

**[You] hang on just a second**

He made a change to the contact and waited, and when Spot texted him again, he snickered.

**[asshole] im panciking dude**

**[You] panicking*****

**[asshole] stfu ass im having a crisis**

**[You] what’s soulmate saying?**

**[asshole] they wrote an address to someplace and its rly close and im freakin out**

**[You] wait, as in New York? I thought they were Italian**

**[asshole] didnt we all jacky boy**

**[asshole] didnt we all**

**[You] well you’ve got to go meet them**

**[asshole] ofc i do thats not even a question**

**[asshole] it’s a coffee shop address tho**

**[asshole] what if theyre like**

**[asshole] going on a date**

**[You] then you crash it. simple.**

**[asshole] i dont want them to hate me**

**[You] I’ll come with you, how’s that**

**[asshole] buy me a coffee im urs babe**

~

Crutchie wiped down another table and tried to ignore the swirls appearing on the back of his hand.

“What is your person _doing?_ Testing out a pen?” Mush asked, coming out from behind the counter to peer at Crutchie’s hand.

“They could just be drawing,” Crutchie said softly. “People are allowed to do that.”

“Well yeah, but if they know that it’s appearing all over you, it’s kind of an asshole thing to do.”

“I like it,” Crutchie said, feeling a small smile turn up the corners of his mouth as he watched the swirls appear on his skin. He couldn’t feel it, but he found comfort in the fact that Soulmate, wherever they were, existed. They were real. He wasn’t imagining them, and if he should ever find them, he would be able to spend the rest of his life with them.

Assuming, you know, they lived on this continent.

And spoke English. Loops and swirls didn’t exactly give away much about what language a person spoke.

With Crutchie’s luck, his soulmate would speak German, wouldn’t know a word of English, and would hate Crutchie, who was about as non-German as it got, on sight.

Or something to that nature.

“You’re a sap,” Mush said helpfully.

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Perfect Relationship.” Mush had met his soulmate, Blink, several months ago, and no one was… exactly sure how. They hadn't revealed any details about their first meeting (heightening Crutchie’s suspicions that one or both of them had been partaking in illegal activities), but they had told Crutchie that they had instantly hit it off even without knowing they were soulmates. Then Blink had written his number on Mush’s arm, only for it to appear on his own, too. Now they were happily dating, and while they didn’t live together, Blink spent so much time at Crutchie and Mush’s apartment that they may as well already.

Mush rolled his eyes but knew better than to argue with him. He loved Blink, and Crutchie knew it. Any day now, they would decide to seal the deal and Blink would move in, and then Crutchie would have to go find another place to live.

Deep down, he knew they wouldn’t do that to him, but he still felt like a third wheel ninety percent of the time that he hung out with them.

The bell on the door dinged as a customer came through the door, and Mush left Crutchie with a “ _shit,_ ” under his breath, to go attend the counter, which, in his absence, had formed a line of people.

Crutchie finished wiping off his table and moved onto the next one, watching the circles and loops on the back of his hand multiply in number and size as Soulmate drew more of them. He decided he quite liked the way they seemed to swirl around his hand as he moved the rag in a circular motion across the table.

Then they hit rush hour, or, as Mush affectionately called it, “the shitstorm.” This was the time of day when most of the businesses and offices in the area let out for lunch break, and as a result, the café became packed with people on break.

Crutchie joined Mush at the counter, serving drinks and taking orders, and together they knocked out the entire line of people. Soon enough, the café was once more quiet and relatively empty, with the only noises being the slight buzz of whispered conversations and the tapping of keyboards.

Mush sighed and slumped over the counter in exhaustion. “I hate the shitstorm.”

“Not so loud,” Crutchie murmured, catching the eye of a little girl with her mother at a table next to the counter. Still, he agreed. Rush hour was perhaps his least favorite part of working here.

“Oh, hey,” said Mush suddenly, standing up straight once more. “Race is coming by today.”

“By the café?” Crutchie asked. When Mush nodded, he sighed. “ _Finally._ He’s been promising to swing by for, what, three weeks now?”

“Four,” replied Mush. “And he never has.”

“Rude,” said Crutchie mildly. “What time is he coming by?”

Mush pulled out his phone, which he wasn’t _technically_ supposed to have while working, but it wasn’t like Crutchie was about to snitch on him. “Any minute now.”

“Does he even know where we are?” For weeks now, Race had been promising to come to the café and say hello, but something had always come up. Which was understandable (he wasn’t _trying_ to be rude), but the excuses were getting tiring.

“I sent him the address. He’ll be here,” Mush said, pocketing his phone.

“I hope you’re right,” Crutchie muttered.

~

“So, what, we just walk in there?” Spot asked.

They were standing outside the café where Spot’s soulmate had (unknowingly) directed them. Jack had been all for going in and escaping the cold, but Spot was hesitant. Jack knew why, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give Spot shit about it. What were best friends for?

“Well, unless you wanted to link arms and _skip,_ then yes, we should probably stick to walking,” Jack grumbled.

“Shut up, ass. I mean-” Spot looked at the sign on the door proudly proclaiming _We are Open!_ and was it Jack’s imagination, or did he look _nervous?_ “What if they’re in there? What do I do?”

“Well, can’t you just walk up to them and say, _hey I’m your soulmate, want to make out?_ ”

“ _No,_ ” Spot hissed. “I most certainly _cannot._ For obvious reasons.”

“Look, let’s just go in there, and if something goes terribly wrong, we make a quick getaway. Simple.”

“So many things are going to go wrong,” Spot groaned, but he followed Jack in anyways.

The café was warm and welcoming and smelled like cinnamon. Jack could feel his shoulders relaxing as he went in, letting the door shut behind Spot and him. All the tension drained from him, and he could actually hear the little sigh Spot let out behind him.

The barista looked up as they came in. He was on the shorter side, with dark skin and darker eyes that lit up with a smile as he welcomed them in. His nametag said _Michael_ in messy handwriting.

“Damn, why haven’t we been in here before? I _love_ this place,” Spot murmured, and Jack nodded agreement.

They both ordered, and Jack handed over the money. When the barista caught sight of the drawings on Jack’s hand, his eyes widened ever so slightly. Really, if Jack didn’t have _Spot Conlon_ as a best friend, he wouldn’t have noticed it, because almost instantly, the barista returned to normal, smiling pleasantly and taking the money.

“I like your… artwork,” he said, putting the money into the cash register and handing Jack his change.

“Thanks,” Jack said, and backed away, joining Spot at the side counter to wait for their drinks.

“What was that about?” Spot asked.

“Nothing,” Jack sighed. Surely the guy would have said something had _he_ been Jack’s soulmate.

Right?

~

“Crutchie,” Mush said urgently, busting through the breakroom door.

Crutchie jumped. He’d been taking a break from work since it wasn’t incredibly crowded, and Mush said that he would be fine for five minutes.

Only apparently he wasn’t, because now his eyes were wide, and he looked panicked.

“What?” Maybe one of the machines had exploded. It wouldn’t be the first time. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You came _barging in here-_ ”

“No, nothing’s wrong. It’s fine. I just—need you outside.”

Crutchie frowned. “The shop was empty two seconds ago.”

Mush hummed unconvincingly. “Just… come out.”

“Alright.” Crutchie stowed his phone back in his pocket and followed Mush back out behind the counter.

“ _Mush._ ” Crutchie wasn’t an easily frustrated person. But the café was still just as empty as it had been when he’d gone on break. “What the _hell-_ ”

“Table four.”

“I- I beg your pardon?”

Mush shoved a pitcher of coffee into his hands. “They need refills. Go.”

“Couldn’t they come to the counter-”

“ _Go, Crutchie!_ ”

“Mush, what’s going on?”

His friend was silent for a second, obviously trying to rearrange his facial features so that he didn’t look _completely_ suspicious. He failed. Miserably. Mush’s poker face _sucked._

“They… just- need some refills,” he finally said lamely.

“No they don’t. Those people-” Here he gestured to table four, where two boys their age sat. “-weren’t there when I went on break, meaning they literally just got here, _furthermore meaning_ that they most certainly do not need refills.”

“They’re fast drinkers. Go.” Mush’s tone made it clear he wasn’t asking anymore. With a sigh, Crutchie grabbed the pot of coffee with one hand, which almost sent the entire thing crashing to the ground. He steadied it, grabbed readjusted his grip on his crutch with the other hand, and hobbled out from behind the counter to table four.

The two boys looked up as he approached. One was tall and dark-haired, and the other was sort of scrawny-looking. The scrawny one had a dangerous look on his face, and he eyed Crutchie as though he was a potential threat before apparently deciding this kid on a crutch couldn’t do shit to him. He returned his scary bright eyes to his hands, which were clasped around his coffee cup much too tightly. He was nervous, but he was doing a damn good job of masking it.

And the taller one…

Crutchie didn’t allow his eyes to linger on any one of his features for too long, because that would be staring. That would be _creepy._ That would be _not-okay._

But god _damn,_ this person had been blessed in the looks department.

Crutchie blinked hard. His hand had started shaking on the coffee pot, and it tipped dangerously. Thankfully, the tall ( _gorgeous!_ ) guy had noticed, and he lunged, standing and grabbing the pot before it could spill onto the table.

“Thank you,” breathed Crutchie. “I’m sorry, I just- I’m really sorry.”

“You’re fine,” and _dammit_ his smile was way too attractive this was so goddamn _unfair._

They were face to face, the coffee pot clasped in their hands between them, and Crutchie couldn’t help but notice how nice the guy’s eyes looked when hit with the outside light from this angle.

 _Get a grip. He’s attractive. So what? You have a soulmate,_ the pessimistic voice inside Crutchie’s mind said. _And so does he. Chill._

Suddenly curious, he glanced down at the guy’s hands, which were still wrapped around the coffee pot.

_Their fingers were touching._

_Calm down._

_His fingers were warm._

_Chill out._

_He draws on his hands._

_You really need to cal- what?_

Crutchie looked closer. This guy _did_ draw on his hands, swopping circles and loops that interlocked and made a beautiful design.

A design that Crutchie… _recognized._

“Oh my God,” he said.

“What?” The guy looked alarmed and _dammit_ his smile had gone away, replaced by a concerned frown. _Come back, wonderful smile._

“Your-” The words weren’t coming to him like they normally did. “I mean, my- your-”

Across the table from the guy, his friend huffed loudly.

“What our ineloquent barista _means_ is _look at your goddamn hand,_ Cowboy.”

The guy (Cowboy? That couldn’t be his real name, could it?) glanced at his friend for a second, apparently trying to decide whether or not he was kidding. Then those _beautiful_ eyes flitted to the coffee pot, to their hands, to their fingertips just barely touching.

Crutchie took a deep breath, because he _had_ to be mistaken. He had to have done something _astronomically amazing_ in a past life to deserve this _gorgeous person_ as a soulmate.

But when he looked at their hands again, the patterns matched. The ink was identical. _The patterns matched._

Oh _no._

“Our hands,” Crutchie said helpfully, once he’d regained his breath. “They- um. They match.”

Cowboy’s friend hit his head on the table, groaning in frustration. Crutchie couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore, because he’d _found him._

_Soulmate._

~

Jack was finding oxygen to be a luxury all of a sudden.

He’d come to this little coffee shop for Spot to find his soulmate. He was prepared to act as wingman, maybe crash a date if need be, beat up someone if absolutely necessary. He was all set to find Spot’s soulmate.

Not his _own._

And yet, here he was, in an apron and jeans, a crutch tucked under one arm, his eyes widened in shock that would be funny if Jack wasn’t one hundred percent positive he himself looked the exact same way.

His soulmate.

His _soulmate._

“I-” Jack was the master of words. He was normally eloquent and smooth. He knew pickup lines like a second language, and was very aware of how much of an advantage he had, physical appearance-wise.

He was supposed to be _good_ at this.

But this cute barista (his _soulmate)_ reduced him to an incoherent mess.

Spot huffed loudly from across the table, but Jack ignored him in favor of gawking at his soulmate some more. He noticed for the first time that he had freckles, and his eyes were wide and bright, and his mouth hung ever so slightly open, and Jack found himself wishing that he could kiss that look of shock right off his face.

_Wait, what?_

He’d just met the guy, and sure, they were soulmates, and he was unfairly adorable, and his fingers were soft against Jack’s, and…

And Jack wasn’t sure where he was going with this. He had had a point at some time, but that was over. Now all he could focus on was- was-

_He didn’t even know Soulmate’s name._

“Um.”

Spot made a sound somewhere between a wail and a groan. “Jesus _Christ,_ you guys are hopeless.”

 _Ignore him,_ Jack wanted to say. Didn’t say. Because while Spot may have been an asshole, he was an asshole that was the reason Jack was here at all, _meeting his soulmate._

“I-I’m Jack,” Jack said. The two of them still hadn't moved from their earlier position of practically pressed together, the coffee pot between them, and Jack was very aware of how clammy his hands were getting. Any second now, the pot would slip, splashing them both with hot coffee, and that wasn’t how Jack intended on ending his visit here.

“Crutchie,” breathed the barista. Then he, too, glanced down at the pot, and he seemed to realize how close it was to slipping from their grasp. He tugged lightly on it, and Jack let it go, watching Crutchie set it on the table and then turn himself back towards Jack.

Now there was nothing between them, no barrier between Jack and his soulmate, and Jack was sure that Crutchie could feel his heart beating from here.

“I like your drawings,” Crutchie said, almost shyly. “They were nice.”

Jack grinned. “I drew them for you.”

Crutchie giggled (honest-to-God _giggled,_ and _shit_ Jack could feel his heart melting) and said, “You didn’t even know who I was, did you?”

“Nah. But I knew I’d love you.”

Crutchie’s cheeks were bright pink now, his freckles disappearing behind his blush, and Jack would be _damned_ if that wasn’t the cutest thing ever. “Well, you win in the romance department.”

He grabbed Jack’s wrist with fingers every bit as soft as they’d been before and with a pinky finger as light as a breath, he traced his own words on Jack’s skin. “All I did was remind you about a stupid calc test.”

Jack smiled. “It’s okay. They were my first words from you, my first-” He took a deep breath, “My first sign that you, you know, existed. And that you spoke English.”

Spot made a slightly more desperate-sounding noise beside them.

Crutchie snorted. “Speaking of which, _pretty circles_ don’t tell a guy _crap_ about what language you speak. I was panicking, Mr. Jack.”

“Sorry,” murmured Jack, and Crutchie grinned at him to let him know he wasn’t serious.

Jack never wanted him to stop smiling. It was a good look for such a little ray of sunshine.

“Just _kiss_ already, and put us all out of our misery,” Spot sighed, taking a sip of coffee.

“Oh, I couldn’t- I mean, we shouldn’t-” Crutchie said, beginning to back away. His fingers dropped off Jack’s wrist, and he instantly mourned the loss.

“Why not?’ Jack asked, before slamming his mouth closed and wishing he could take it back. _Why can’t you keep your goddamn mouth shut he’s going to think you rush into things he’s going to be afraid of you and your stupid advances now look what you’ve done._

Crutchie started to say something, then apparently thought better of it and shut his mouth. Then he opened it again.

“I mean,” and _oh no he was going to give every reason as to why this was a terrible idea, he was going to say he didn’t want to rush into things, maybe he doesn’t like you back, what have you done you stupid idiot you never do anything right you-_

“If you want to.”

Every circuit in Jack’s brain fizzled out at once, and he actually _felt_ this mouth drop open.

“I am,” he said, swallowing hard, “most definitely not opposed to the idea.”

“Oh, good, I was worried,” and Crutchie was smiling again _dimples and freckles_ and all Jack could think of was how goddamn lucky he was that he’d gotten this adorable human for a soulmate.

 _I must have done something amazing in a past life_ , Jack thought, as he leaned in, took Crutchie’s hand back, and closed his eyes as Crutchie kissed him on the cheek.

It wasn’t much, just a short brush of his lips against Jack’s cheek, but Jack thought that he couldn’t have had a more perfect first meeting with his soulmate.

Then Crutchie sighed happily and moved his lips from Jack’s cheek to his mouth, and Jack swore he could actually feel himself sinking into the ground.

Kissing, he decided, as he brought a tentative hand up to cradle Crutchie’s jaw gently, was an art form. Every movement of their lips together, every squeeze of Crutchie’s fingers, which were still slightly hot from holding the coffee pot, was creating a masterpiece between them, a masterpiece comprised of sighs and soft, warm mouths opening to each other again and again. A piece of art, beautiful and hesitant, quiet and unremarkable to onlookers, but so, _so_ remarkable to Jack.

 _We’re kissing in the middle of a coffee shop,_ thought Jack gleefully. _I’m kissing the world’s cutest boy in the middle of a public place._

Crutchie pulled away and opened his eyes, searching Jack’s face for- what, doubt? Regret?

_You won’t find any. You won’t ever find any. Do you know how head-over-heels I am for you already?_

“Well, that was something,” he whispered with a small smile.

“Something,” Jack agreed breathlessly. “Something amazing.”

“So it was…” Crutchie trailed off. “It was alright?”

“It was _fantastic,_ ” Jack said emphatically, squeezing Crutchie’s hand.

And this time it was him, not Crutchie, who leaned forward first.

They had been kissing for quite some time when Jack realized- _right,_ they were in a _public_ coffee shop and he was being _completely_ indecent, not to mention he might be costing Crutchie his very job right now. Hell, Crutchie probably wasn’t allowed to be kissing customers on the job.

He pulled away.

“Is everything alright?” and Crutchie looked so _worried, why did he look so worried?_ Was he actually scared that there was _anything_ wrong with this?

Because Jack seriously wanted to knock some sense into him if that was the case.

Gently.

With smooth caresses and soft touches.

He was so far gone it wasn’t even funny.

“It’s great,” he said, lowering his voice and his head at the same time, so that his forehead rested on Crutchie’s and his voice was almost a whisper. “It’s everything I could have dreamed, I just- we’re still in the middle of this coffee shop. And you work here.”

Crutchie chewed his lip, obviously seeing the problem. “I’m- I’m technically on break right now,” he ventured, rubbing the back of Jack’s hand with a soft finger, tracing light circles that sent a chill through Jack. “So if we stopped kissing in the middle of my workplace, we’d probably technically still not be breaking any rules…”

“I like the way you think,” Jack said with a grin, and reseated himself in the booth, pulling Crutchie down to sit with him. When they were both situated comfortably, Jack noticed, for the first time, that Spot wasn’t there. He scanned the café for him and found him leaning over the counter, pestering Mush, probably for more coffee, and Jack felt momentarily guilty, both for making Mush deal with his asshole of a best friend and for abandoning said asshole of a best friend in favor of making out with his soulmate, who he’d just met. They were originally here for Spot, after all.

Then he shook his head and turned back to Crutchie. His _soulmate._ The boy he was _destined to be with._

He was so damn lucky.

“So Jack,” Crutchie said, and Jack decided right then and there that his name sounded the best coming from Crutchie’s mouth; everyone else could just call him Cowboy, thanks. “What brought you here today?”

Jack considered it. “My friend, Spot, the one I was sitting with, his soulmate wrote this place’s address on his arm, and Spot decided to come and investigate.”

“Interesting,” Crutchie hummed. “Has your friend’s soulmate written anything else on him?”

“Some list of what to buy at the grocery store. In _Italian._ ”

Crutchie stiffened. “Italian? You’re sure?”

“According to Google, yeah. We tried Spanish, French, and… I think Latin, just to be sure, but Italian was the only one that matched.”

“Latin? No one speaks Latin anymore,” Crutchie laughed.

“You never know!” said Jack defensively. “We had no idea. And the fact that it’s Italian and not Latin doesn’t tell us anything. Spot’s soulmate could still live in Italy and not speak a word of English.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Crutchie said, but there was something… _off_ about his tone.

“You know something,” Jack said, and was rewarded when Crutchie’s cheeks went flaming red.

“I don’t _know_ anything,” he said, glancing down at their joined hands. “I may… have a hunch. One of our friends is Italian, and based on your friend’s- ah, _personality-_ ”

“You mean acting like a little shit?”

“Yeah that. Based on that, I would think that Race would be absolutely _perfect_ for him, just because they’re so similar.”

“By which you mean Race is a stupid piece of shit, too. And what kind of a name is Race? Is it short for something?”

“Racetrack,” Crutchie said simply, as though _Racetrack_ was a perfectly acceptable name for someone to have. “And he’s only awful when he wants to be, which, from what I understand, is much like your friend.”

Jack nodded. “And this Race guy… he’s Italian?”

Crutchie nodded.

“You think it’s him? For Spot, I mean. You think they’re meant to be?”

“I do.” Crutchie turned his gaze back to Jack and smiled. “But they can work their own shit out. What’s happening in the life of Jack Kelly? I don’t even know what you do. How’s life?”

Jack laughed. “Well, I’m a student at uni. I’m not sure yet, but I think I’ll major in the arts.”

“What arts?”

“Any arts. Artisty arts.”

“Riveting.”

“Shut up,” Jack snorted, shoving Crutchie with his shoulder, and Crutchie laughed, and _oh was it possible to be romantically attracted to a giggle because Jack was so immensely screwed._

“But seriously, that explains the drawings,” Crutchie said, indicating his hand. “You’re crazy talented.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“And not at _all_ humble,” Crutchie noted, and it was his turn to shove Jack. “No, but they’re really amazing.”

“Thank you,” said Jack, and he meant it.

“So you’re an art student. You live with Spot?”

“Nah, I live with my friend Davey, but Spot and I have been friends since… I don’t even know. A long time.”

Crutchie smiled. “I understand the feeling. I’ve known Race and Mush since the fourth grade, so…”

“So what do _you_ do, Crutchie?” Jack asked. “Is Crutchie even your real name?”

“No, thank goodness,” Crutchie said with a small smile. “My mother didn’t decide to name me Crutchie, but I was in an accident when I was in kindergarten. My mom, she, ah, wasn’t the most steady, and she was driving drunk, and we crashed. It killed her and left me with a mutilated leg that my papa didn’t have the money or care to pay for, so I got a crutch, a lollipop, and an apology from the doctors that they couldn’t do more.” Crutchie shrugged, like it was no big deal, but he had dropped his eyes from Jack’s. “That’s my sob story, but things have gotten better since then. Now I’m living with a friend, and I love my classes, and at least I can walk, right?”

“That’s a positive outlook on it.”

“I try to have a positive outlook on most things,” Crutchie said. “Like, life sucks, but it could always be worse. Always. That’s my motto.”

“It’s a great motto,” Jack said, honestly shocked, because this kid had every right to be angry- he had been separated from a mother by death and it sounded like a father out of pure neglect. He had been through so much shit, because walking with that crutch couldn’t have been easy, both physically and socially, and yet he remained eternally optimistic.

Jack was _so_ far gone for this small ray of sunshine and the happiness he seemed to radiate.

“I- can I kiss you again?” he asked, because honestly, he couldn’t form any coherent thought except that.

Crutchie narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “Not if it’s a pity kiss.”

“What? No!” Jack said. “No, it’s definitely not- I just, I think…” He took a deep breath. “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

Then he realized how cliché of a phrase that was, and was quick to defend himself. “I mean, I know it’s sudden, and I just met you, but I think that maybe-”

Crutchie laughed, but it wasn’t unkind. “I understand, Jack, and I think… I think I might love you a little bit, too.”

“A little bit?”

“Um, yeah?” Crutchie looked startled, but Jack squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Jack nodded, satisfied. “This could work, then.”

Crutchie smiled. “I believe it could.”

“And I never did get that second kiss, Crutchie. Or your real name, I might add.”

Crutchie tilted his head, considering it, then leaned in. Right before his lips touched Jack’s, he whispered, “Charlie. My name’s Charlie.”

Then he kissed him, and whatever Jack was about to say died in his throat as he directed all his brainpower into kissing Crutchie.

Kissing his _soulmate._

He could get used to this, he thought, and melted into the kiss.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! let me know if you liked it
> 
> i am actually @to-thc-rcvolution on tumblr now- come say hi/yell at me/cry about newsboys 
> 
> in conclusion 
> 
> yes


	22. soulmate pt 2- sprace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the second part to the jackcrutchie soulmate fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the requested second part to chapter 21- this time with our favorite stubborn assholes!!!
> 
> much love to koko, em, and bel, without whom this would probably still be only one page long
> 
> OH HEY 
> 
> SO THE FIRST PART OF THIS WAS 15 PAGES ON WORD DOCS
> 
> THIS ONE'S 35 
> 
> yeah you know how you tell yourself "this one'll be shorter" and then you step back and reevaluate your life choices like, "nah man, stop lying to yourself."
> 
> yes

~

Spot watched his best friend kissing his soulmate for about five seconds, max, before clearing out and joining the second barista at the counter.

“What can I get for you?” he hummed.

“A soulmate,” snapped Spot, fed up with Jack and his perfect adorable soulmate who looked at him like he hung the sun and had the greatest smile. He was fed up with his own soulmate, Italian and unresponsive to Spot no matter how many insults Spot sent him via skin-to-skin communication. He was just _fed up._

“Sorry, dude,” the barista, Michael, according to his nametag, said sympathetically. “I’ve already found mine.”

“Of course you have,” sighed Spot. “And let me guess. They’re perfect and smile at you like you’ve got the sun shining out of your ass and love you for all your flaws, blah, blah, blah.”

Michael considered it. “Actually, my soulmate’s only got one eye, and we met because he was on the run from a cop, but you know. To each his own.”

Spot stared at him for a second. “I’ll tell you what you can get for me. You can get another one of whatever the hell Jack just ordered for me, and then you can _tell me_ that goddamn story.”

Michael grinned at him. “Not even Crutchie knows _that_ story, dude. You’re out of luck. But I can get you another coffee. Hang on.”

He got to work making the drink, and Spot leaned forward over the counter to pester him some more. “Asshole. You can’t just _tell me_ something like that and expect me to leave it be, man. I’ve got to hear this story.”

“Maybe Blink’ll tell you,” Michael hummed, then turned on the machine, which emitted a dull roar that would have made it impossible to hear Spot’s argument, so he shut his mouth.

When the noise stopped, Spot said, “What the hell kind of name-”

“Hey, babe.” Someone had slid up to the counter beside Spot, and Michael’s face lit up.

“Baby,” he said happily, and leaned across the counter to peck the guy on the mouth.

“You’re Blink,” Spot said.

“And you’re standing in my usual place.” Blink hip-checked him over and leaned across the counter, just as Spot had been doing less than a minute ago.

Spot could have gotten mad about this guy barging in and stealing his counter space, not to mention barely glancing at him before devoting all his attention to Michael, but…

But he’d seen Jack and his soulmate, the cute barista, when their eyes had met. _Sparks_ had effing _flown._ So maybe, just _maybe,_ he would let this whole thing slide. With Jack, and with this guy.

Speaking of which… he glanced back at his and Jack’s table, where he and Crutchie had (thankfully) stopped kissing. Now they were tucked into the booth, laughing and talking and drinking the coffee that Crutchie had so narrowly avoided spilling on them.

_You could have something like that. Like Jack and Crutchie. Like Mush and Blink._

He needed to find his soulmate soon, so he could stop being so damn _sappy_ about it.

He looked over the guy next to him. He was taller than his barista soulmate, with lighter skin and hair and, true to Michael’s word, had an eyepatch over one eye. Spot vaguely wondered what had happened, then decided he would sooner go back over and watch Jack and _his_ soulmate than ask Blink about it.

“Race is on his way,” said Blink, and Michael nodded.

“He texted me,” he said. “It’s about damn time.”

“Hasn’t he been promising to come by for, like, three months now?”

“Four,” Michael corrected. “Blink, this is Spot. His best friend is Crutchie’s soulmate.”

Inwardly, Spot sighed. He didn’t necessarily want to be known as _Crutchie’s soulmate’s friend_ from now on among these people, who he was almost sure he’d be hanging out with more now because of Jack, but he figured it could be worse. Jack had admitted that he referred to Spot as _the angry one_ for weeks in school until he’d finally had the guts to go introduce himself. So, yeah, there were worse titles to earn.

“Michael here was telling me about how you met,” Spot said, tracing a pattern onto the counter with his finger.

“Mu- _ush_ ,” Blink whined, slumping over the counter. “Don’t _tell_ him. That ruins it.”

“Mush?” Spot supposed he wasn’t one to criticize, given his nickname, but _seriously, how many of these people were named after random words?_

Michael-Mush-whatever the hell his name was, turned red. “It’s a nickname. No one really calls me Michael anymore.”

Spot was intrigued, but he ignored the questions bubbling inside him and instead pointed to Mush’s nametag. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Mush agreed. “I couldn’t convince my boss to get it changed.”

Blink snorted. “You couldn’t convince Wiesel to let you out thirty seconds early, babe.”

Mush smacked his arm. “Rude.”

“Hey, it’s nothing against you,” Blink said. “The guy’s a tyrant. I can’t wait until Crutchie gets promoted to manager.”

“Which, with our luck, won’t be until we’re in our forties,” sighed Mush, putting a lid on the coffee cup.

Blink turned to Spot. “Spot, huh? What’s it a nickname for?”

“None of your damn business,” Spot said cheerfully, accepting the coffee over the counter from Mush. It was his standard response. His go-to. _I’m mysterious and have a weird nickname. Deal with it._

The truth? _Spot_ was all there was. He didn’t _have_ a name.

Not a real name, anyways. Not one that was _his._

Because the owner of his _first_ name… well, that scared, confused little girl was long gone now. _Spot_ was all he had.

“Have you found your…” Blink tapped at Spot’s wrist, where the address of the coffee shop was faint but still clearly there, a constant taunting reminder of Spot’s situation.

Spot yanked his hand back before Blink could read it, but he was secretly glad for the subject change. “No,” he sighed. “Still looking, and not sure they’re even in this country.”

“What do you mean?”

Spot found the Italian grocery list, even fainter than the address, and pointed to the words. Blink leaned in closer.

“That’s not English,” he observed.

“No shit, Sherlock. It’s-”

“Italian. Is it Italian?” Mush interrupted, leaning in as well, and Spot’s fingers froze on his own wrist.

“..Yes,” he admitted. “How did you-”

“Lucky guess,” Mush blurted, and busied himself with cleaning the coffee machine, not meeting Spot’s eye.  Puzzled, Spot looked to Blink, but for a guy with one eye, his face was surprisingly blank.

“What about Italian? How did you know what language this was in?” Spot demanded.

Neither boy responded, and Spot huffed angrily, turning to stomp back to Jack and Crutchie, because they were mushy and gross but at least they weren’t assholes.

Unfortunately, there was something (some _one_ ) in his way, and what happened next happened in a blur.

There was a warm body colliding with his, wide eyes, right at eye-level with his own, coffee slipping out of his hand.

When everything slowed down again, he found himself face-to-face with a guy about his height, with eyes so dark they were almost black, wide and staring right into his own. His mouth was slightly open from the gasp that Spot was only about sixty percent sure had come from him and not Spot himself.

Spot felt warmth seeping through his ratty converse and knew that his coffee was now all over the ground, but he couldn’t make himself tear his eyes away from the person he’d just slammed into.

“ _Madre di Dio,_ ” and that wasn’t …English. “ _Che diavolo, culo!_ What the hell are you doing?”

Spot instinctively stepped back, right into the counter, and he jumped at the hard stone against the small of his back. “I- what the hell was _I_ doing? What the hell were _you_ doing, standing right behind me like that, ass?”

“ _I’m_ the ass? Stupid _figlio di puttana,_ what about _you?_ Believe it or not, some people don’t _enjoy_ having coffee _dumped all over them!_ ”

“I didn’t _dump it all over you,_ you damn idiot!” Spot cried, offended. “It’s just your _shoes._ Chill.”

The guy’s eyes narrowed, and he muttered something else under his breath that Spot was positive was _not_ in English and _not_ at all complimenting Spot’s personality. Then he moved around Spot to stand beside him at the counter.

“Mush,” he hissed. “Control your customers.”

Spot opened his mouth, about to say something, but Mush cut him off. “Can it, Spot. You’re disturbing the peace in here and I have a goddamn migraine. And he’s not _mine,_ Race. He came here with Jack.”

“Is that name supposed to mean anything to me?”

“Oh! No, not really. Jack is Crutchie’s soulmate.”

“When the hell did _Gruccia_ get himself a soulmate?” the guy (Race, Spot’s mind supplied, the scary, pissed-off guy that had cussed him out in another language was named Race) said incredulously, fixing Mush with a look that implied complete doubt that this Crutchie person would _ever_ find a soulmate, which Spot thought was unfair. Crutchie had seemed like a half-decent guy in the minute that Spot had known him before he became a permanent attachment to Jack Kelly’s mouth.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Mush muttered.

“No, I’m not-” Race groaned and muttered something in that language again- Spot couldn’t tell what it was... Spanish, maybe? “I didn’t mean it like _that,_ of course the crutch has a soulmate, I just… it’s a pretty big coincidence that both you and Blink _and_ Crutchie and what-‘s-his-face fond each other, here, in New York.”

“Do you believe in coincidences?” Blink asked, examining a fingernail. It was an innocent enough question, but Race stiffened.

“I think this whole soulmate thing is bullshit. _Cazzate,”_ Race muttered, glaring at him. “And I highly doubt my soulmate is as close as you lucky bastards.”

“About that…” Mush trailed off, then looked at Spot. “Do you, by any chance, speak Italian?”

“What kind of question- no. I don’t speak Italian, we established that earlier,” Spot said. “But what the hell does that have to do with-”

“Excellent,” Mush said, cutting him off and spinning to face Race. Then he spoke, very fast and in a mutter and not in English, which pissed Spot off immensely.

Race cocked his head and answered, in the same language.

Spot turned to Blink, who looked about as mad as Spot felt.

“I effing _hate_ it when they do this,” he grumbled.

“You mean this is a normal thing?”

Blink nodded. “Whenever they don’t want anyone to eavesdrop, they slip into goddamn _Italian_ and it drives me up the _effing wall_.”

“Italian?” Spot asked. The same language as the list on one of his arms.

Coincidence?

Race had said he didn’t believe in coincidences.

Did Spot, honestly?

It seemed like too much of a chance that his Italian soulmate had written down the address of this place not too long ago, and now this guy had shown up. At the correct address.

And he happened to speak Italian.

_Was it really a coincidence?_

“Race,” he said, butting into the conversation. “Did you go to the grocery store, like, three, four days ago?”

Race narrowed his eyes. “Did I see you there?”

“No. Just answer the damn question. Did you?”

“Yes I think so.”

“And let me guess.” Spot racked his brains, desperately trying to remember what Google Translate had told him. “You got pasta… and a pack of gum, and … bread?”

Race looked at Mush. “Is this some kind of joke?”

When Mush shrugged, he looked at Spot. “Are you _actually_ stalking me? How the hell would you have known that?”

“Lucky goddamn guess,” Spot snapped. “What do you think, ass?”

Race just frowned at him, and was he _really not making the connection?_

“So you _have_ been stalking me.”

“ _No._ ”

“Then _what the hell?_ ” Race cried. “How do you know _not only_ that I went to the store a few days ago, but also _exactly_ what I got there? I could call the police on you!”

“No you couldn’t,” Spot said, his anger at a full boil now because _Race didn’t understand, it hadn't even crossed his mind that Spot could be his soulmate,_ and that pissed Spot off. “You couldn’t, because- you know what, screw this. Never mind. Never mind any of this. Screw you. Goodbye.”

He didn’t wait to see Race’s reaction, whether he would be flustered, or surprised, or just pissed off.

He turned and stormed back over to his and Jack’s (that was a joke, it was Jack and _Crutchie’s_ now) table and grabbed his keys, then wasted no time in getting the hell out of there.

Jack could find his own damn way home.

~

**[Cowboy] where the hell did you go**

**[Cowboy] I need a ride, ass**

**[You] sucks 2 suck**

**[Cowboy] where did you go? are you alright?**

**[Cowboy] hello?**

**[Cowboy] spot?**

~

Spot spent the rest of the night on the couch, simultaneously cursing himself for being an idiot and listing all the reasons he had done the right thing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

_You stupid son of a bitch._

_No, you’re in the right here._

_You stupid idiot. You could have just told him!_

_No, you couldn’t have._

_He would have understood!_

_He would not have understood._

Back and forth. Back and forth.

He eventually turned on the TV, to tune out the voices arguing in his head, but no matter what he put on, he could still hear them, berating him and praising him, over and over again.

He could have _told_ Race that he was his soulmate.

But he hadn't. Because he had been pissed.

But he _could have._

But he _hadn't._ And now his chance (perhaps his _only_ chance) to meet his soulmate had slipped through his fingers.

 _You’ll see him again._ Race was one of Crutchie’s friends, after all, and Spot supposed he would be seeing Crutchie much more since he and Spot’s best friend were _meant for each other_ or whatever.

So he would see Race again.

The only problem was: how did he bring this up in casual conversation?

_Hey nice to see you again oh yeah we’re kind of destined to be together, according to our skin-to-skin connection, and I guess it just slipped my mind back in the coffee shop! Haha!_

Race would kick his ass into next week.

No, he decided, he wouldn’t bring it up. Surely Race wasn’t _that_ dumb. He had to have made the connection, and, bold as he was, _he_ could be the one to bring it up next time they saw each other.

Yes. This was a good plan.

~

This was a terrible plan.

Because Spot was going to be seeing Race in less than ten minutes, and he was a nervous wreck.

Okay, so that wasn’t _technically_ true. He wasn’t made nervous very easily, especially not by something as stupid as _soulmates._ But he was anxious to see how this played out.

It was exactly a week and a half later. A week and a half since the incident at the coffee shop.

And Crutchie had invited Jack and Spot over a few times since, which meant that Spot had seen Race, and while Race wasn’t still pissed at him, the atmosphere between them was less than friendly.

But now Spot was going to be seeing this less-than-friend in eight minutes. For an entire night. Where there would be alcohol and the requirement to be civil.

See, Crutchie had invited Jack (“and your friend, of course!”) to a party at his and Mush’s place. When Spot had asked who would be there, he had received The Eyebrows from Jack, along with the information that Crutchie, Mush, Blink, another one of their friends whose name Spot couldn’t remember to save his life, and yes, Race would be there.

Then Crutchie had extended the invitation, so that not only Jack and Spot but Jack’s roommate, Davey, was coming too. And then they had learned that Sarah and Blink were in the same calc class and actually got on pretty well (perhaps “friends” was a stretch, but they tolerated each other), so that pretty much sealed the deal for Katherine and Sarah to come as well. Also in Sarah and Blink’s calc class was a guy named Romeo, who had hung out with them several times before and said he would try to come.

It would be a rather large get-together, so it wasn’t like he and Race would _have_ to interact, right? There were plenty of others to talk to, after all, and none of them had the added burden of being Spot’s soulmate, so that was a plus.

_You’ll be fine._

A knock at the door sent him, groaning, to his feet.

It was Jack, hand-in-hand with Crutchie, who was smiling sweetly at Spot (as if his face had any other settings. Spot was beginning to think that the adorable puppy grin was his default).

“Do you… have a roommate?” Crutchie asked.

“No,” Spot and Jack said at the same time.

“I scared him off at the beginning of the year,” Spot added. “He was a transphobic asshole, and he needed to go. Hasn’t been back since, and they haven’t replaced him, so I’m alone in here.”

Crutchie looked startled, but Jack laughed.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Do I have to answer that?”

“You’ll be fine,” Crutchie said reassuringly. “You’ve already met Mush, Blink, and Race, and Specs is a sweetheart. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Spot narrowed his eyes at Crutchie. _Unless one of the aforementioned people is my soulmate, but they don’t know it, and they actually hate me for dumping my goddamn coffee on them, even though that wasn’t technically my fault, nor did I actually dump the coffee on them…_

“You’ll be fine. This’ll be great,” Crutchie said.

Spot wished he could believe him.

~

Davey was waiting for them in the passenger seat of the car, and his sister was seated in the back.

“Can I have shotgun?” Spot asked.

Jack snorted. “You know the rules. Davey gets first dibs because he has to put up with me twenty four-seven.”

“But I’m your _friend,_ ” Spot whined. “And I’m being _dragged_ to this party.”

“Sorry dude,” Jack said. He didn’t sound very sorry. “But if the _boyfriend_ doesn’t get shotgun, then you’re out of luck.” Spot shot a glare at Crutchie, who was positively _glowing_ from the boyfriend comment.

He sighed and joined Sarah in the back, making sure to put his feet up so that Crutchie could slide his crutch onto the floor of the minivan.

The minivan. It had originally belonged to Davey, but after learning that Davey preferred to bike everywhere (“it saves _energy_ ”), Jack had sort of adopted the thing as his own. Jack had said himself that he preferred his old pickup truck, but whenever he was driving more than one person, he took the old van. It was something of a joke among their friends- a million years old, smelly, and temperamental in the way that it only occasionally felt like actually starting. Still, it seated eight, and the seats were soft, which for a lot of them sealed the deal.

They picked Katherine up at her house, and she immediately climbed in the back and demanded that Spot move.

“No,” he said.

“Move, ass,” Kath said again.

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re sitting next to _my_ girlfriend. Go to the _back,_ Conlon!”

“Why don’t _you?”_

“Because Sarah’s already _here!_ _Move!_ ”

“Make Crutchie move!”

“No, I actually like Crutchie. Stay where you are, Crutch.”

Crutchie snorted. Spot swatted at him with no malice.

“So you and Sarah _both_ move to the back, Plumber.”

“I was here first,” Sarah interjected.

“Sit in her lap, then. See if I care. But I’m not moving.”

Katherine looked him in the eye, but he stared right back, unblinking. It was a battle of wills, and he was determined not to lose, figuring she’d eventually cave and drag Sarah to the back with her.

But he had underestimated Katherine, and now that he was locked in this staring contest he realized how dangerous it was, because she was _not backing down._

“What’re you guys _doing?_ ” Jack asked as he got in the driver’s seat of the car.

“Shh, don’t interrupt,” Sarah said in a reverent tone. “They’re arguing.”

“They’re _staring_ ,” Jack protested.

“They’re telepathically arguing,” Sarah replied.

“Is this a… common occurrence?” Crutchie asked.

“Yes,” said Jack, Sarah, and Davey in unison.

Finally, Jack started the car, which seemed to jolt both of them into action. Still glaring at Spot, Katherine climbed over her girlfriend and squeezed in between Spot and Sarah, making sure to jab him in the ribs with her elbow as she got comfortable, half in Sarah’s lap. Then, just to add to it, Katherine propped her feet up in Spot’s lap, which no amount of shoving on his part would work in getting them off.

“Sa- _rah_ ,” Spot whined. “Control your girlfriend.”

“And why would I do that?” Sarah hummed as Katherine leaned back to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Kath,” Spot groaned. “Your feet are _hurting_ me.”

“Spot, shut up,” Jack said as he pulled out onto the main road.

“But she’s _hurting me._ ”

“Stop being a pissy baby,” Katherine mumbled, readjusting her feet so that her heels dug into his thighs.

Spot sucked in a sharp breath. “ _Christ,_ Plumber. That _hurts._ ”

“Sucks to suck, _Conlon,_ ” she snapped, leaning her head back against her girlfriend’s shoulder. “You should’ve moved to the back when you had the chance.”

“Well, I can’t any _more._ ”

“I said _when you had the chance._ Obviously that period of time has passed.”

“Screw you.”

“Love you too,” Katherine laughed, blowing him a kiss.

“But not as much as me,” Sarah put in.

“No, I love you the most, babe,” she said happily, kissing her again.

Up front, Davey gagged. “Can you _not?_ That’s my _sister_ you’re kissing, weirdo.”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “No kissing in the backseat.”

“Oh, like you and Crutchie wouldn’t be _all over-_ ” Spot started, but Katherine cut him off.

“Is that rule implying that there’s kissing allowed in the _front_ seat?”

“I’m the only one ever driving this thing, Kath,” Jack said. “And Davey’s usually in the front seat.”

“Why?”

“He’s my roommate, so he gets dibs.”

“And I don’t trust his driving,” Davey added, dodging Jack’s punch.

“ _Ass._ I could send you to the back to deal with your sister and her minions.”

“I am _not-_ ” Spot protested, at the same time that Katherine spouted, “Ex _cuse_ you, I am _clearly_ the leader here!” and Sarah made a face and said something like, “Kath is right.” Davey snorted, like _you would never get rid of me,_ and Spot had to agree.

Crutchie just laughed incredulously, like he couldn’t believe these people were real.

 _Just you wait, kid,_ Spot thought. _It only gets crazier from here._

~

“Crutchie, you literally live here.”

“Yes?” Crutchie obviously didn’t see Mush’s point.

“So there was _absolutely no reason_ for you to leave. At all. You could have waited here for all the guests. You didn’t have to go get them.”

Crutchie shrugged. “I wanted to go. I like Jack.”

“Well, I would hope so,” murmured Jack, coming up behind him and slipping his hand into Crutchie’s. Crutchie turned to flash him one of those blinding smiles, and Jack leaned down to kiss the smile off his face.

Spot turned away. It wasn’t that he wasn’t thrilled for Jack and Crutchie (because as much as he griped and groaned about how sickening they were, he _really was happy for them_ ), but it was just too much, watching them being so happy together, knowing that he had thrown away his shot at introducing himself to his own soulmate.

Well, he’d introduced himself. But not as Race’s soulmate. And now Race hated him.

Speaking of which… where was Race?

He scanned Mush and Crutchie’s living room, trying not to make it obvious, and finally found him, in the kitchen doorway, glaring out at nothing, a bottle already in hand.

 _Ignore him,_ he told himself. _If he wants to say something, he’ll say something. Don’t make a big deal out of it._

So he left Race in the doorway and joined Katherine and Sarah on the couch.

“What do you want, shrimp?” Katherine asked.

“I take offense at that, Plumber,” he grumbled.

Katherine shrugged. “I’m an only child. I don’t get to pick on many people. So, what’re you here for, shrimp?”

“Something to do. Someone to talk to. I dunno,” Spot muttered.

“Aw, baby,” said Sarah on Katherine’s other side. “You’re _lone_ -ly.”

“No, I’m not,” Spot started, but Sarah and Katherine both cut him off at once, making sympathetic, crooning noises that didn’t do anything to improve his mood.

“Hey, _you,_ ” Katherine said suddenly, and Spot could feel himself stiffen as he heard someone come up behind their couch. “Are _you_ lonely?”

“Um, no?” It was Race. _Of course_ it was Race. Because fate liked to listen to Spot’s requests, and then laugh evilly while spitting in his face and making shit happen to him anyways.

“So you’ve found your soulmate?” Katherine asked. “What’re they like?”

Spot hadn't turned around to see Race, but he could hear the discomfort in his voice as he replied, “I haven’t met them yet. But I’m sure sh- I’m sure _they’ll_ be great, when I do meet them.”

 _So he hasn’t figured it out,_ Spot thought to himself. _He doesn’t know that we’re soulmates._

And then all he could think was, _thank God I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt._ Since the Italian shopping list and coffee shop address had faded, Spot had made up for their absence by scribbling all over his arms and, by default, Race’s. Race’s shirt was short-sleeved, so he could see his own pen marks all the way up Race’s arms. _I’m not sorry._

“Ooh, he thinks it’s a _she!”_ Katherine hooted, and Spot felt his stomach drop out from underneath him. _Goddammit._ Of course Race was straight. Of course he wouldn’t even _consider_ that a guy could be his soulmate.

_Dammit._

“No, I don’t-” Race began, but he was cut off.

“He thinks it’s a _gi-irl!”_ Katherine stage-whispered dramatically.

“Why do you think it’s a girl?” Sarah asked, in the same tone of voice.

“Because... I dunno,” Race muttered.

Spot self-consciously pulled his sleeves down past his wrists, cursing his overdramatic self for marking up Race’s arms. If they had to play any sort of game at this party where Spot had to roll up his sleeves, he’d be found out. _Shit._

_What were you thinking?_

~

Race wondered why Spot was fidgeting so much on the couch.

Like, he understood that maybe they hadn't parted on the _best_ of terms at the coffee shop a week and a half ago, but he figured Spot would at least _try_ to be civil in front of everyone else. When he and Spot had gotten to (read: been _forced to_ ) hang out earlier in the week, they hadn't been _friends,_ exactly, but maybe friendli _er._

And he wasn’t exactly… positive what had happened at the coffee shop. They’d crashed into each other. Coffee had been spilled. And Spot had gotten pissed, because Race was pissed? Maybe? He didn’t know for sure. Then Spot had stormed out, leaving Race in shock, standing alone at the counter, with Mush and Blink not-so-subtly snickering behind him.

He’d tried to ask them what had gone down that day, but hadn't received a straight answer, only more laughing and Mush very unconvincingly telling him that Spot was just being a drama queen.

Somehow, Race didn’t think so.

Something had happened back in the coffee shop. Something that had to do with him. Because it wasn’t normal that Spot (a guy he’d _just met_ ) would know his schedule, and what he’d gotten at the store.

He suspected that it was a practical joke on Mush or Blink’s part. A prank, to freak him out a little bit, and Spot was just the poor sap they’d dragged into it.

Maybe Spot just hated him. It was clear enough from the way he was tugging at his shirtsleeves that he’d rather not be a part of this conversation. Then one of the girls (Katherine, he was pretty sure it was Katherine) had mentioned that he thought his soulmate was a _she,_ which wasn’t completely true, but they didn’t need to know that.

The truth was, he wouldn’t have minded either way. Due to a homophobic family and the fear of being disowned, he wasn’t technically out yet, but since beginning college, he’d admitted to a few close friends that he liked both girls and boys.

So if his soulmate was a guy… great. If it was a girl… fantastic.

But these two girls he’d just met (and Spot, the asshole) didn’t need to know that. So he just agreed with Katherine’s guess that he thought it was a girl.

And was it his imagination, or did Spot’s shoulders slump ever so slightly when he said it?

Impossible. Spot hated him.

And was Race really suffering under the delusion that Spot might _like_ him? _Yeah, right._ Spot probably had his own soulmate. A nice person, be it a girl or guy or neither, who he loved and could tease and who put up with him just for being _him._ Maybe they were here. Maybe they and Spot were a gross PDA couple who never let anyone forget they were together.

That would be great. Awesome. Truly. He should be happy for Spot and this hypothetical soulmate.

_So why did his chest feel like it was about to explode?_

It must have been the beer.

He wasn’t _allowed_ to like Spot, with his stupid smirk and stupid eyes that scanned you like they were seeking out your deepest secrets and stupid laugh, which Race had only heard once, but he’d already decided it was the single most _stupidly_ attractive thing ever, and his stupid _existence._

God _dammit._

He _couldn’t_ like Spot. It wasn’t _allowed_ to happen like that.

Because of all this bullshit with soulmates. Race was supposed to love his _soulmate._ Not _Spot._

And Spot most certainly didn’t like him back. Because now he was getting up, going to the kitchen. Leaving the conversation. 

He probably couldn’t stand Race.

Race couldn’t blame him.

~

Spot had to get away from the conversation, because bad enough Race was _straight._ Bad enough he thought his soulmate was a girl.

But then Katherine and Sarah started pestering him about it, because they couldn’t know. Of course they couldn’t know. Race didn’t even know.

And Spot had decided that he absolutely could not deal with Race telling them that his soulmate was wonderful, or would be as soon as he met them. As soon as he met _her._

He would never meet _her._ Just Spot.

 _I’d like to apologize in advance…_ But of course he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t out himself like that. Let Race continue to live under the beautiful delusion that his soulmate was a lovely girl somewhere that he had yet to meet.

In the meantime, Spot would be fine. Great. Just peachy.

He just hoped that he wasn’t around when Race _did_ find out.

So he got up and left the conversation, making his way into the kitchen instead, to where Jack had finally detached himself from his boyfriend and was laughing with Davey about something. Crutchie was nowhere to be found, but he wouldn’t be far off. He never was. Because he and Jack were goddamn soulmates. They loved each other. It was sickening.

The ache in Spot’s chest must have been the lack of alcohol. He needed some, now, if he was going to survive this night. This party. Where shit was sure to go down.

“I want to go home,” he informed Jack, who just laughed.

Like it was a joke.

He grabbed his bottle with perhaps more force than necessary, sending ice from the cooler spilling to the floor, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. Instead of picking the ice up or even making sure someone else did, he stalked back out of the kitchen. Things were just going _great._

~

“We are _not_ playing Truth or Dare,” Davey snapped.

They were all seated on or around the couches in Mush and Crutchie’s living room, in various states of drunkenness. Mush, who was the group’s lightweight, was hiccupping into his boyfriend’s shoulder, but Spot, who could hold his beer like nobody’s business, was lounged on one of the couches, completely unaffected by his drink, taking up the entire thing save for a corner Katherine had claimed for herself. Sarah sat on the floor, in between her girlfriend’s legs. Another couch was taken up by Mush, Blink, and their friend, who was apparently named Specs. All that Spot had gathered from him was that he was shy, and quiet, and he had _no_ idea how he had _ever_ become friends with the nuclear bombs known as Mush and his group of friends. In the overlarge armchair, Crutchie sat on the arm while Jack took up the seat of the chair. Davey sat on the ground beside them. Directly across the room from Spot (because yes, he did care, as a matter of fact, where his soulmate sat in correlation to himself), Race was on the ground in front of Mush, Blink, and Specs.

“Aw, Davey, why nooooot?” Jack asked.

“Because we aren’t _twelve._ We’re _mature college students._ ”

Spot snorted loudly. Across the room, Race choked on his drink.

Blink voiced all their thoughts aloud. “Mature? _Us?_ ” He took a sip of his drink. “ _Really?”_

Mush giggled into Blink’s shoulder.

“Okay, so we’re not _mature…_ ” Davey admitted. “But we aren’t _teenage girls._ We aren’t playing Truth or Dare.”

“Ah, but my dear friend,” said Crutchie with a smile, “You aren’t in charge.”

“Who is?” Race asked.

Crutchie thought it over. Spot marveled that he was still coherent at all, because this was _at least_ his third drink since the party had started, and yet his eyes were still alert and open, and his speech wasn’t slurred at all.

“Well, it’s my place. Mine and Mush’s. But since he’s our resident lightweight…”

Everyone turned to look at the boy in question, who buried his face in Blink’s chest.

“I take offense to that,” he mumbled, as Blink petted his hair.

“Good,” said Spot cheerfully, ignoring the middle finger he received from Blink.

Race scoffed. “So who _is_ in charge?”

He turned those scary dark eyes on Spot, and Spot resisted the urge to avert his gaze. Because those eyes were _so_ dark. It was like staring into a pit, mysterious and unknown. Unreadable. And very intimidating.

_It’s just Race. Chill out._

“Crutchie,” Spot voted. “He’s the only one of us whose idea of fun and common sense overlap.”

Race shrugged, like, _if you say so,_ and Spot tried not to count it as a personal victory.

“I vote _yes_ to that idea,” Jack put in, and Crutchie leaned down to peck him on the mouth.

“You taste like beer, babe,” Crutchie hummed, pulling away from the kiss and wrinkling his nose, and Spot gagged.

“Too much information, Crutch.”

Crutchie stuck his tongue out at him and kissed Jack again.

“I say why not?” Blink said, and Mush nodded agreement.

“As long as my _brother’s_ not in charge, I’m fine,” Sarah mused. Katherine hummed absentmindedly and toyed with Sarah’s hair.

“Can I braid your hair, Saz?” she asked, and Sarah tilted her head back in answer.

“What is it with girls and wanting to braid hair all the time?” Race wondered aloud.

“Hey, dude,” Sarah murmured. “Don’t diss the hair braiding.”

“It feels _amazing,_ ” Katherine agreed.

“It does,” Spot murmured, almost to himself. When he caught Race’s confused glance, he shrugged. “What? My hair used to be long enough to braid. It feels awesome.”

“When was _that?_ ” Race demanded.

“A _long_ time ago,” Spot snorted. “A time you will never know.”

“It was his _rebel_ phase,” Jack put in, and Spot flipped him off.

“So Crutchie’s in charge,” Davey sighed. “What next, Man in Charge?”

Crutchie detached himself from the kiss and hummed, surveying the room as he pursed his lips. _You taste like beer,_ he’d said to Jack. Spot wondered what kisses normally tasted like. He wondered if he’d ever get to kiss someone. He wondered what kissing Race would be like.

And then stopped there, because _why was he thinking about kissing Race?_ Race didn’t even know they were soulmates. Race was _straight._

 _Time to get it out of your head, dude,_ he told himself. _This one isn't going to happen. Not with Race._

“We should play Truth or Dare but _not_ Truth or Dare,” Crutchie said.

“I hope you know that that statement made next to _no_ sense,” Sarah grumbled.

“Because we’re _mature_ and all,” Crutchie continued. “We play Truth or Dare… with a twist.”

Race laughed. “And that makes us so much more mature, Crutch.”

Crutchie shrugged, but at this point it didn’t look like he cared much anymore. “Fine, then, we don’t have to be mature. Spot, get me an empty bottle.”

Spot drained the rest of his beer and was about to toss it to Crutchie, then seemed to make the connection. _Why would Crutchie need a bottle for a party game?_ “Oh _hell_ no.”

“Spo- _ot!_ C’mon, just trust me,” Crutchie begged. “It’s not what you think.”

Spot regarded him, and _damn_ how did Jack ever refuse such a sweet, pleading face? (Oh, that’s right. He _didn’t.)_ He passed Crutchie the bottle.

“Okay, so,” Crutchie said, twirling the bottle experimentally in his hands. “We put the bottle in the middle of the room. Spin the thing. Whoever it lands on gets asked Truth or Dare. If they successfully complete the Truth or the Dare, then they get no penalty. But if they fail… we spin the bottle again and make them kiss whoever it lands on.”

Silence, and then, “You’re an _evil_ drunk _,_ Crutch.”

It was Katherine, who was looking at him with a mixture of horror and excitement on her face. “This is going to be _awful_ ,” she said happily.

Sarah sighed. “If Kath’s in, I’m in.”

“You’re going to regret that,” Jack told his drink. Crutchie swatted his arm, and Katherine flipped him off with one hand while holding her girlfriend’s braid in place with the other.

“I’m not sure whether to be scared that Crutchie’s going to kick his ass, or Kath,” Sarah marveled.

“Speak for yourself. I’m not scared for either. In fact, I’m rather looking forward to it,” Spot laughed. Katherine held Sarah’s hair again and used her free hand to reach across the couch and punch his arm.

“ _Ouch,_ Plumber,” Spot snapped, swatting at her, but she was already out of reach.

“Play nice now, kids,” Davey muttered.

“Yes, _Mom,_ ” Katherine and Spot chorused as one.

“Let’s start,” Crutchie cut in, and Spot couldn’t blame him, because the look in Davey’s eyes was downright _murderous_. “We need a designated bottle-spinner. Um…”

“Ordinarily, I would vote for Davey, but I don’t actually trust him not to kill me right now,” Spot said.

“Specs!” Blink volunteered, nudging the boy in question’s shoulder. Specs looked confused, and then Blink began moving his hands in patterns, swooping them and joining them and detaching them and- _what was he doing?_

Davey leaned forward. “You speak sign language?”

 _Sign language. Of course._ Because now Spot could see that the patterns and swirling motions that Blink’s hands were making had meaning- Specs was nodding, understanding them.

Blink nodded in response to Davey’s question, never once taking his eyes off of Specs as Specs signed something back.

“He says he’ll do it,” Blink translated.

 _He’s deaf,_ thought Spot. _Of course._

So that was why Specs hadn't said a word since getting here, hadn't contributed to any conversations, hadn't even followed. Because he _couldn’t._

Jack shrugged. “I trust his bottle-spinning skills as much as anyone’s, honestly.”

“Alright, Specs,” Crutchie said, making sure Specs’ eyes were on him before tossing him the bottle.

Specs set it down in the center of the room and got down on the floor to spin it, and Spot had only time to pray, _not me,_ _please,_ when it settled, neck pointed towards Sarah.

“Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” Sarah said instantly. Spot couldn’t blame her.

“Sarah…” Crutchie mused. He turned to his boyfriend. “What’s a good truth for Sarah?”

Jack shrugged, completely unhelpful, and Crutchie made a noise of dissatisfaction with him before returning his attention to Sarah.

“Truth...um, something embarrassing. Jack, help me,” he said.

“Crutch, you suck at this,” Race sighed.

“Shut up, ass,” Crutchie shot back. “ _You_ do it, if you’re so smart, then.”

“Fine. I think I will.” Race set his beer down and cracked a few knuckles. “Alright… truth? Tell us about your first kiss.”

“I don’t want to hear that!” yelped Davey, covering his ears.

Sarah groaned. “Do I have to?”

“Unless you want to kiss someone of the bottle’s choosing,” Spot said.

“The bottle decides,” giggled Mush with a hiccup. “The almighty bottle.”

“That’s nice, babe,” Blink said soothingly, taking his boyfriend’s beer away from him and setting it on the ground.

“Shit,” Jack said suddenly. “Am I in this story?”

“Yes. Shut up,” Sarah said. “So it was, what, eighth grade? So none of us had gotten to _soulmate age_ yet, so we were dating people for fun, knowing that it wouldn’t last, knowing nothing was permanent, and a certain Mister _Jack Kelly_ drags me behind the gym and asks me if I want to _go steady_ with him, and when I replied that yes I did, he kissed me.”

The room sat in awed silence for a few minutes, and then Race asked, “So what happened next?”

“I smacked him.”

“True love,” Blink sighed.

“And then we had a lovely relationship for a week and a half before I decided that the girl who sat in front of me in math class was _much_ prettier than him, and so our beautiful relationship ended.”

“That’s alright,” Katherine hummed. “It was never destined to go anywhere.”

Sarah twisted her head and leaned upwards to peck Katherine on the lips. “Thank goodness.”

“I take offense to that,” Jack protested, but Crutchie silenced him with a kiss to the neck.

“We know,” he laughed, and Jack looked hurt for about two seconds before turning his head to kiss Crutchie on the mouth.

“Alright, next person,” Spot said hurriedly.

Race nodded in agreement. “Not that I’m not _totally_ enjoying this little... um, lovefest going on, but Specs, spin the bottle!”

It landed on Mush, who loopily sat up from where he’d been leaning on Blink and said, “Um. Truth.”

“You guys are _noioso,_ ” Race complained. “Bo-ring.”

Mush rolled his eyes. “If I wanted t’ publicly ‘ _mbarrass_ m’self, I’d’ve picked a _dare,_ _idiot._ ”

“You don’t need our help with that, babe,” Blink said.

“Truth... First crush?” Race asked. It was innocent enough, but Mush’s cheeks darkened. Or. They might have. It was hard to tell, since the alcohol had made him so flushed already.

“H’nestly?” Mush seemed to think it over. “Prob’ly you, Race.”

“Really? Why?”

“Y’know… tall, dark, ‘talian, _hot._ An’ you didn’ treat me like _shit,_ unlike ev’ryone else.

“Hey,” said Crutchie. “I take offense at that. _I_ didn’t treat you like shit.”

“Well, yeah, but you an’ Race were th’ only ones,” Mush sighed, slumping against Blink.

Blink kissed his forehead.

“But don’ worry, Blinkee, ‘m over him now,” Mush added, as though it needed to be said.

“We know, babe,” he replied. 

Specs gave the bottle in the middle another spin, and this time, it landed on him.

“Specs…” Race said, drawing the word out. “Truth or Dare?”

Specs signed a _T,_ which even Spot, uneducated in ASL as he was, understood.

“Truth,” sighed Race. “Boring, all of you assholes are. So boring. But I guess-”

“What’s your wrist say?” Jack butted in.

As Specs glanced toward Blink for a translation, Spot leaned in to squint at the writing on Specs’ wrist.

Or… wrists.

Because once Specs had gotten the Truth in sign language, he pulled up both of his jacket sleeves to reveal writing on _both_ of his wrists.

“Have you met them yet?” Jack asked. Specs shook his head.

“So are they ambidextrous, or…” Katherine trailed off at the boys’ blank expressions. “You know, can they write with both hands, or is some of that writing yours?”

Specs shook his head and scooted across the room to her, and Spot leaned in to look closer at Specs’ wrists.

“Those are two completely different sets of handwriting,” Katherine noted. Sure enough, one was written in black ballpoint pen, smudged and messy, and one was impeccably neat, written in perfect twelve-point font, in green ink.

“And you haven’t written anything, right?” Sarah asked. “I mean, neither of those is your handwriting?”

Specs cocked his head. He hadn't looked at her mouth in time to read her lips. He looked to Blink for a translation, and once he had one, he turned back to her and shook his head _no._

He hadn't written either of the notes. Which meant that either his soulmate was ambidextrous _and_ had multiple personalities, or…

“Dude,” said Crutchie, leaning forward. “You’ve got two soulmates?”

Specs nodded, then rolled his sleeves back down and scooted back to his spot on the couch.

“Is Romeo even coming?” Sarah asked, and Spot tried to remember that name, match it with a face. When he couldn’t, he remembered that Sarah and Blink had a mutual friend that they had invited to the party, although he didn’t remember anything else about this mysterious Romeo. Like why he was named after a Shakespeare character. Or why he was late.

Blink shrugged. “He said he’d try.”

Specs had apparently gotten lost in the conversation. He tugged Blink’s sleeve and asked something. Blink signed individual letters to him, spelling out (Spot assumed) Romeo’s name, and Specs nodded, satisfied.

“Man, your wrists are the coolest effing things,” Race said. “So you’ve got two soulmates.”

Specs nodded again, then signed something, _much_ too fast and complex for Spot to pick up, and apparently too quick for Race, either, because he just frowned. “What?”

“He says- hang on,” Blink sighed, and signed what Spot assumed was _“Sign it again.”_

Then he looked at Specs’ hands as Specs signed it once more.

“He says one of them is a dancer,” Blink relayed. “Because they’re always reminding themselves about rehearsal.”

Specs nodded and tapped the wrist with the neat, green ink on it, then signed something else, and Blink smiled. “Every weekday at four forty-five, yeah man, I know, because-” and here Blink began to sign as he spoke, “-You tell us about it _every time they write it._ ”

“And the other?” Katherine asked. “Have they given you any… hints as to what they’re like?”

Blink and Specs had another exchange, and then Blink said, “No. Just that their handwriting is _atrocious._ ”

Race scoffed. “I’ll bet my soulmate could give them a run for their money on _that,_ man.”

Spot was suddenly very aware of how much his face was burning, and tried to hide it by taking another sip of beer. His heart beat maddeningly. _Was Race going to elaborate and unknowingly expose Spot? Was this it?_

But no, Race just rolled his eyes and leaned back against Blink’s legs, making no further comment.

It was all Spot could do not to sigh in relief.

He was so focused on Race and his _not_ outing him that he didn’t even notice that Specs had gone to spin the bottle again- and it had landed on him.

“Spot!” laughed Crutchie. “Truth or Dare?”

“Dammit,” he muttered, because he hadn't had time to think about it. The safest option would be Truth, obviously, but no one had picked a Dare yet, and Spot Conlon was nothing if not a daredevil.

“Dare,” he said.

“You’re going to regret _that,_ ” giggled Mush.

_Oh, I know, Mush. I know._

“Dare…” Crutchie wasn’t normally a person that Spot would describe as being _mean-looking,_ but in that moment Spot swore he looked downright evil.

“So, Spot, have you found your soulmate yet?”

~ 

Crutchie (kind of) knew what he was doing.

He figured that he could dare Spot to write something to his soulmate. This would require Spot to roll up his sleeves, exposing his writing to the world (and more importantly, Race), and presto! Two of his friends and their soulmates sorted out at once.

“That’s a truth,” Spot complained.

“No, it’s me getting background information so I can plan this dare accordingly,” Crutchie replied. “Have you or have you not?”

“ _No,_ ” snapped Spot. “I haven’t.”

“Okay, so, write something to them.”

“ _What?_ ” Spot’s expression took on a level of panic. _Excellent._ Even more proof that his soulmate was probably sitting across the room from him.

“Ooh, yeah, do that,” Blink said, leaning forward. “See if they respond.”

Spot’s face had gone an unnatural shade of white. “I can’t- I mean, I shouldn’t, I mean-”

“Aw, why not?” Crutchie laughed. He shouldn’t have been enjoying this as much as he was, but Spot getting flustered was a rare occasion, one worth reveling in and celebrating.

“Because- because…” Spot trailed off, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. Then he looked up, _relieved? That wasn’t right._

“I don’t have to!” Spot cried. “Specs, spin the bottle.”

“Damn,” Crutchie muttered, because he’d forgotten about the loophole that _he had come up with._ Spot could get out of this by kissing someone.

Specs reached for the bottle to spin it again, but before he could, there was a knock at the door.

“Som’one get that,” Mush slurred, gesturing in the general direction of the door.

“Mush, you _live_ here,” Jack pointed out.

“What’s y’r point?”

“You’re a sucky host,” Blink informed him. “That’s probably Romeo. I’ll get it.”

He got up and made his way to the door, and the entire group listened as he opened it and greeted- yes, it was Romeo.

Then he came back into the living room, and trailing him was someone Crutchie had never seen before. He was _tiny_ (and Crutchie was a fairly good judge of size, since he was not on the large side himself), with dark hair and freckles and a shy, nervous smile.

“Guys,” Blink said, gesturing to the new guy. “This is Romeo. Romeo, this is everyone.”

Romeo waved as the room took up a chorus of “Hi, Romeo”s.

“You can sit…” Blink scanned the room. “You can squeeze in between me and Specs, or grab a seat somewhere on the floor, or…”

“Would I be too much of a bother on the couch with you guys?” and _Christ_ even his _voice_ was tiny. This person and his entire being radiated _small_ ness, and it was adorable.

“Not at all,” Blink said, and signed something to Specs, who scooted over. Blink and Romeo took their seats, with Romeo in between Blink and Specs.

“Alright, we’re continuing,” Crutchie said. “Blink, if you would be so kind as to fill the new guy in on what we’re doing.”

As Blink murmured in Romeo’s ear, Specs leaned forward and spun the bottle, and Spot sat bolt upright, as though he had suddenly remembered that his entire fate was on the line here. Crutchie snickered and watched as the bottle spun, and spun, and spun.

After what seemed like an eternity, it landed, with the neck pointed towards…

~

_Romeo._

Spot breathed a sigh of relief, because of all the people to kiss, this random kid that he didn’t know was probably the best option.

“Rome, that’s you,” Blink said, nudging him.

Romeo’s eyes widened as he looked from Spot to the bottle and back to Spot again. Spot tried to tone down his glare, but as it was his resting face, he wasn’t sure he did much about it.

“Dude, you don’t have to-” Crutchie began. “I mean, since you’re new and all. We can give you a few rounds to see what we’re doing and everything, if you want…”

“Um, can I pass?” Romeo asked, then flushed dark red. “I mean, it’s nothing against you, I just- I don’t really know you guys all that well yet, if that’s alright?”

“That’s fine,” laughed Crutchie. “Specs, spin it again.”

There was no reply. Specs hadn't looked up in time to read Crutchie’s lips.

When he looked up and saw everyone’s eyes on him, however, he looked alarmed.

 _What?_ he signed.

Blink started to sign something back, but Romeo cut him off.

“You speak sign language?” he asked, signing it as he said it.

Specs nodded and began enthusiastically signing, Romeo responding in the same way.

Spot watched them for a minute or so before turning to Katherine. “Does anyone else here secretly speak sign language?”

Kath shook her head, and Davey slowly raised a hand before putting it back down when Jack kicked him.

“We _know_ you speak ASL,” Jack snapped.

“Along with, what, eight other languages?” Spot scoffed. He should know. He was the one Jack went to when he needed someplace to crash because Davey was learning _another_ language and if Jack heard _one more_ conjugation of _one more_ verb he was going to _jump_ out the effing _window_.

“Just four,” Davey murmured, looking like he regretted bringing it up at all.

“ _Just four,_ ” Sarah mimicked. “Dave, I struggle with _English_ sometimes.”

“I speak fluent sarcasm,” Katherine volunteered.

“We know,” the room chorused.

Romeo and Specs seemed to have wrapped up their little conversation, and now Romeo was turning back to the group, signing as he spoke.

“My mum is deaf,” he explained. “And, Specs,” he said, turning to the boy in question. “They want you to spin the bottle again.”

Specs nodded in understanding, and reached down to spin the thing again.

As it spun, Spot thought hard. Romeo had been one of the safest people in this room to kiss, since he wasn’t in any apparent relationship and Spot didn’t know him all that well. Now… there was no one really that he would be alright with kissing. Maybe Specs. Or Davey. They weren’t in relationships, either.

But Spot _knew_ Davey.

_There is one other person in this room that you don’t know well and is not currently in a relationship, and you know you want-_

He stopped that thought before it finished. He wasn’t thinking about kissing Race. He would not kiss Race.

None of his options were preferable. He sighed and watched the bottle spin, wondering who he was going to piss off this time.

Race, apparently.

God _dammit._

Because of course, _of course,_ the bottle would land on Race. Naturally. Because fate was a cruel, cruel thing.

Several people laughed. Jack catcalled. Someone whistled, and Crutchie just grinned.

“Race!” he said. “You’ve got to kiss Race.”

 _No!_ Spot’s mind screamed. _You can’t!_

He squeezed his eyes shut and considered kissing Race- actually kissing his soulmate.

Race was probably a great kisser.

_But he doesn’t know. It wouldn’t mean anything to him. At least not like what it would mean for you._

“I- I take it back,” he said. “I’ll do my dare.”

For a second, he was afraid Crutchie wouldn’t let him. Then he smiled sweetly. _Too_ sweetly.

“Excellent,” he said, handing Spot a thick blue marker.

Spot took the marker and thought hard. _What was he going to write?_

Something simple.

Like _hi._

Perfect.

Now he just had to figure out where to put it. Not anywhere Race could obviously see it. At least not yet. Maybe when he got home, he would see it… and then Spot wouldn’t be there to deal with the consequences.

Spot glanced down at himself, trying to decide where the best place to write it was, and eventually decided that his legs were out, because he didn’t feel like rolling up his jeans, and his arms were out, because Race was wearing short sleeves.

_Write it under your shirt. Race wouldn’t take off his shirt here, in front of everyone._

Then again, Race probably wouldn’t even think to check. Race didn’t think Spot was his soulmate.

~

Crutchie watched Spot fidget with his shirt for a second before reaching underneath it with the marker.

“Spot, what the hell are you even _doing_?” Katherine asked.

“Writing to my soulmate,” Spot said, apparently finishing his message and removing his hand from under his shirt. He capped the marker and passed it back to Crutchie, and Crutchie silently marveled at how good Spot was at this whole _being difficult_ thing.

Because Race wouldn’t even think to look under his own shirt. Race didn’t know that he and Spot were meant to be, because Spot was a stubborn ass.

 _He’s good,_ Crutchie thought. _Too good at this._

~

Race wondered why Spot had gone to all the trouble of writing the message to his soulmate under his shirt when he could have, like, put it on the bottom of his foot or something.

“You do realize,” he called, taking a sip of beer. “That they’re going to see it as soon as they take off their shirt tonight. On your chest is not exactly _sneaky._ ”

Spot may have blushed, although it was hard to tell. “Yeah, well, it only says _hi._ It’s nothing special. They still don’t know it’s me, so.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “You didn’t put any identifying bits on there, no clues as to who you might be.”

“True.” Spot fixed the hem of his shirt, which had been riding up his side, and Race pretended like he hadn't been looking.

“Alright, next person,” Crutchie called, and Romeo signed to Specs, who spun the bottle again. Race only had time to think, _not me, please, not me,_ before the bottle landed on Romeo again.

~

Romeo thought about it.

“Truth.” Which may have been a wimpy move, but he wasn’t ready to do anything crazy yet. Not in front of these people, who, aside from Sarah and Blink, he hardly knew.

Specs nudged him and signed, _so boring, Romeo._

 _Shut up,_ Romeo signed back.

Specs’ eyes lit up with silent laughter. Romeo decided he quite liked Specs’ eyes. They were light and kind behind his glasses, and they looked at Romeo like he was the greatest thing to ever happen.

Okay, so Romeo _might_ have had a _tiny_ crush on him. But he didn’t plan on _acting_ on it. Specs most likely already had a soulmate. No sense in getting his hopes up.

“Truth…” Race seemed to think about it. “Do you have soulmate’s marks on you?”

Romeo nodded.

“Will you show them to us?”

That sounded more like a dare to Romeo, but he was happy to oblige, taking off his coat and revealing his two arms- one marked with his own messy reminders to himself about tests and drama club, and the other telling him, in impeccable green ink, that there was _dance class- 4:45_.

Beside him, Specs jumped as though he’d been burned. He tapped Romeo’s shoulder so hard that it was more like a smack and pointed to his own wrists. At Romeo’s questioning look, he rolled up his sleeves to reveal his own words. His own words _that matched Romeo’s._

Suddenly, Romeo was finding it hard to breathe. “You…” he whispered, almost forgetting to sign. “You’re my soulmate.”

Specs nodded so enthusiastically that his glasses slipped down his nose. He shoved them back in their place and began signing, quickly and excitedly (and sloppily, but that was understandable).

Laughing and matching him in pace and excitement, Romeo signed back to Specs.

To his _soulmate._

~

Race was obviously missing something.

Because while it may have been cool that he was bilingual, Italian didn’t help him for _shit_ when it came to sign language, so he was completely lost.

He’d asked Romeo to show the group his soulmate’s marks out of curiosity. Specs had jumped and started whacking Romeo on the arm, and then a lot of nonverbal communication had taken place, most of which Race couldn’t even begin to guess.

Then Romeo had breathed, “You… You’re my soulmate,” and suddenly, a lot of things made sense.

For a moment, the group sat in stunned silence. Then they exploded.

“Oh my _God,_ congratulations!” Katherine cried, as Crutchie yelled, “That’s so cool!” and Mush valiantly contributed to the conversation with a slurred “ _Duuuuude!_ ”

And amidst the chaos, Romeo and Specs just grinned at each other, absolutely elated and _so obviously_ in love.

 _Someday, someone’s going to look at you like that,_ Race told himself, and tried to believe it.

Eventually, the celebration died down and the game continued. Race was so preoccupied with watching Specs hesitantly reach for Romeo’s hand (cautious, before catching sight of Romeo’s smile and enfolding the smaller boy’s hand in his own), that he didn’t even notice that the bottle had landed pointing to him.

“Race!” laughed Crutchie. “Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” he said, tearing his gaze from Romeo and Specs.

“Dare…” Crutchie hummed thoughtfully, turning to his boyfriend. “What should we make him do?”

“Kiss someone,” Jack replied absentmindedly, knocking back the last of his beer.

“That’s not fair,” Spot protested, and _why did he look nervous?_ “Then his options would be kiss someone or spin the bottle and kiss someone.”

“Exactly.” Crutchie looked delighted. “Race, you can chicken out and kiss someone of the bottle’s choosing, or you can kiss…” He trailed off, then whispered something in Jack’s ear.

~

Spot knew. He knew as soon as Crutchie got that look in his eye, that smile on his face. Even as he turned to Jack, pretending to confer, Spot _knew._

He knew _exactly_ what was going on.

~

Race wished he knew what was going on.

But now Crutchie and Jack were plotting, Spot looked somewhere in between pissed and scared shitless, and Race _still_ didn’t know what was happening.

“Or you can kiss Spot,” Crutchie finished, after a moment of what must have been telepathic communication with his boyfriend.

_Kiss Spot?_

Spot? With his terrifying eyes and his mean sneer and his _really_ attractive face?

Who was now looking more than pissed off. He looked _livid._

“Jack effing Kelly, I’ll kill you _and_ the Crutch,” he snapped. “I’ll wring your goddamn _necks._ ”

Crutchie pretended not to hear him. “So what will it be, Race?”

Race thought hard. On one hand, a totally random, bottle-picked person, which wouldn’t offend anyone and wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

On the other hand, kissing Spot, which he’d wanted to do for a while now, but which would most certainly end badly. Spot was looking like he wanted to commit mass homicide right about now, and Race didn’t want to come any closer.

Spot probably didn’t want to kiss Race.

As Spot continued to glare at Crutchie and Jack, Race reevaluated that statement.

Spot _definitely_ didn’t want to kiss Race.

  _But it’s not Spot’s dare,_ a little voice inside Race’s head said. _He isn't making the decision. This one’s up to you, and if you want to kiss him, why shouldn’t you?_

Because he’ll hate me until the end of time.

_He already hates you. Why do you think he’s been so uncomfortable around you since he met you?_

I shouldn’t.

 _Probably not. But you_ can.

“I can,” Race murmured, then realized he’d spoken aloud. “I mean… I can kiss Spot.”

Spot made a sound of panic. “I can _not._ ”

“’S not your dare, Spotty,” Katherine laughed, and Spot flipped her off.

“No, no, I _really_ can’t,” Spot said, eyeing Race like he was afraid Race would jump him.

“Why not?” Blink asked.

“Because,” Spot said plainly, as though that was a reasonable response.

“That’s stupid,” said Crutchie. “It’s not your turn. Just play along, dude.”

“I can- change my answer-” Race began, but he was cut off.

“No,” Crutchie said. “It’s not his turn. You don’t have to do that, Race.”

“I don’t- I just..” Spot looked lost. “I can’t kiss you. I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” That was Jack, who hadn't been following the conversation but was now leaning forward in interest.

“ _Because!_ ” And now Spot was getting up, backing away towards the door to the next room- Race thought maybe it was the hallway, or the kitchen. “I really… I just…”

He never finished. He turned on his heel and fled.

~

 _That was stupid,_ Spot told himself, once he was alone on the fire escape of Mush and Crutchie’s apartment, leaning on the railing, looking out at the busy streets below. _And overdramatic. Why couldn’t you have just kissed him, like any normal person would have done? You’re so self-centered._

 _I don’t care,_ he thought. _I couldn’t kiss Race. It wouldn’t have meant a damn thing to him and I couldn’t have lived with that. I did the right thing._

 _You idiot,_ the voice told him. _This is just like back in the coffee shop. What have you done?_

~

“This is your fault, so you get to go make sure he doesn’t freeze to death,” Jack said, pointing at Race.

“Me?” cried Race. “How is it _my_ fault?”

“You picked him,” Crutchie said, which, alright, Race supposed was fair.

He sighed and stood up. “Where’d he go?”

“The fire escape,” Jack said, and it wasn’t a question. “Go make sure he hasn’t jumped off.”

Race hoped he was kidding.

~

Spot heard the door slide open, heard the footsteps come out onto the fire escape, but he didn’t turn around.

“I don’t want to hear it, Kelly,” he snapped. “Not about how shitty of a person I am, not about how shitty of a thing that was to do to Race, not about anything about this shitty night. Got it?”

“Damn, there goes my entire lecture.”

Spot whipped around so fast his head spun. “Race!”

“Hi.” Race closed the door behind him, but didn’t come any closer to Spot, which Spot greatly appreciated.

“I thought you were Jack,” Spot mumbled.

“So I gathered,” Race said. He fidgeted slightly, then crossed his arms, which had Spot’s handwriting winding around them- greetings and insults and reminders and other things.

 _Focus,_ Spot told himself, and tore his gaze from Race’s ( _very nice_ ) ( _heavily muscled)_ arms.

“Did Crutchie send you?”

Race nodded.

“I figured,” Spot sighed. “You can go back in. I’m fine.”

Race stayed where he was. “I- why couldn’t you kiss me?”

 _Why couldn’t I, indeed._ “I don’t know. I just… didn’t want to kiss you,” he mumbled, looking at the ground. When he glanced back up, Race’s expression was something like… hurt.

“But why? I mean, I know I’m not that great of a kisser, but…”

Spot didn’t ask about that one, didn’t ask how Race knew he was a bad kisser, or who had told him such a thing. _Who else had Race kissed? And why was Spot thinking about Race kissing people?_

“It’s not that. I just… couldn’t.”

“But _why not?_ ”

Spot hesitated. If there was any time to tell him, it was now, while they were alone, with no one around so Race could react however he felt he needed to.

“Do you want to know something?” he asked.

“What?”

“Just… something.”

“That was depressingly vague and gave me no hint as to what you’re about to tell me,” Race said with a huff.

Spot allowed himself to smile, a small, quick twitch of his mouth that he quickly let die. Race wouldn’t be joking and smiling after Spot told him that they were soulmates.

Race would probably hate him after this.

~

Race watched, heart beating, as Spot walked towards him, taking a deep breath. “I- I should show you, actually. It’s better if I show you.” He hesitated. Glanced at Race.

“Show me…?” Race asked.

“Could you… This is going to sound weird, but could you take off your shirt?”

“No,” Race said flatly. There was _no_ way, under _any_ circumstances, that he was baring his chest for Spot to see.

“I’ve got to show you something. Please?” Spot asked again.

“No way. I’m not taking off my shirt. Not out here, and not for you.”

“Race, I promise I’m being serious. _Please._ ”

“ _No._ ”

“Race, _please._ I swear.”

Race considered him, his pleading expression, but underneath that, something guarded. What could Spot possibly have to show him that would shake him up so bad?

“You’ve got to show me something on my own stomach?”

“Um. Yes?”

Race fingered the edge of his shirt, considering. Surely, _surely_ Spot wouldn’t trick him into doing something potentially scarring or weird, would he?

“I’m not taking off my shirt,” he said finally. “But I can… I mean, where on my stomach is it? I can pull up my shirt to show you. Show me. Whichever. “

“It’s right…” Spot seemed to think about it. “It should be right about…”

He reached out a finger and touched the side of Race’s ribcage gently, and even though it was through his shirt, Race still sucked in a sharp breath. Spot drew back his hand in alarm, moving his gaze from Race’s ribs to his eyes, and _Christ_ his eyes were so _light_ and yet so effing _frightening_.

“Here,” Spot finished in a small voice.

Race suddenly became aware of how close he and Spot were, that Spot hadn't really had to reach all that far to touch him. He could hear Spot breathing, could see his eyes dancing across Race’s face.

He wondered what Spot would do if he leaned over ever so slightly and kissed him.

Probably punch him.

 _But it would be worth it,_ he thought, _and_ —

And why was he thinking about kissing Spot? He didn’t like Spot. Not at all.

 _Time to stop believing that lie,_ a little voice in his head chastised. _You’ve liked that asshole since you slammed into him and instead of being scared off by your temper, he pulled out one of his own to match._

_You’ve been head-over-heels for him since the beginning. Time to stop denying it._

_Oh my God, I love Spot._

Which was _not right._ Which was _wrong._

Race needed to fall in love with his soulmate. Not Spot.

Still, he was _right there,_ looking flushed from the chilly air and quizzical at the (probably very questionable) expression on Race’s face.

“Spot…” he whispered, and those terrifying eyes locked on his.

But Spot didn’t look angry, or even slightly uncomfortable. Just… curious.

 _He has something to show you,_ something inside Race argued.

 _It can wait,_ he told it, and pressed his mouth to Spot’s.

~

Spot wished he could form a slightly understandable thought that wasn’t _holy shit._

But Race was kissing him.

 _Race._ Was _kissing him._

 _Race._ Who Spot had thought was _straight._ Who…

Who didn’t knowabout them.

Who didn’t know how bad of an idea this was.

That thought alone was enough to send Spot jolting backwards, pulling his lips from Race’s, and the noise that came from Race’s mouth –a cross between a whimper and a gasp- made Spot weak in the knees. He wanted nothing more than to move forward again and reclaim Race’s mouth, to kiss him and make him make those _amazing_ sounds again, but they needed to figure this out. They needed to talk.

And he needed to start talking soon, because Race was backing towards the door, expression quickly hardening as a hundred emotions flitted across his face. Disbelief. Anger. Shock. Hurt. _Regret._

_Regret._

“Race,” he said. It wasn’t loud, but Race still froze.

“…Yes?”

“Why did you…” Spot gestured to the space between them. “You know. Um. Why did you do that?’

“I. I don’t know?” Race asked, then winced. “I mean. I kind of… like you?”

“Race,” Spot said. Very carefully. Very gently. Like he was addressing a skittish animal. “Do you… do you know what I wanted to show you?”

“Um. No?”

Spot breathed a sigh of relief. “So you didn’t kiss me _because_ of what I was about to show you?”

“How could I if I didn’t even know what you were going to show me?”

“Race.” Because there was _no way_ he was this blind. “What would I possibly want to show you _on your stomach?_ ”

“That’s what I effing asked _you_.”

“But how would I know where it was on _you?_ ” Spot pressed.

“Hell, Spot, I don’t know. Maybe you _put it there!_ ” cried Race angrily. Then he paused, and Spot watched the color drain from his face along with the anger, to be replaced by a shocked expression.

“Holy _shit._ You wrote it, didn’t you?”

Spot opened his mouth, then closed it again, because a minute ago, he’d been ready to tell Race everything. He’d been ready to admit that he was Race’s soulmate and then face the consequences. He’d been ready to live with the hurt, the rejection, after Race laughed in his face.

But now?

Now he wasn’t even goddamn _close_ to being ready to spill his secret.

“ _Didn’t you?_ ” Race was panicking, Spot could see it in his eyes. He could be cruel and drag this out even longer, or—

Spot dropped his gaze to the floor of the fire escape. “Yeah, Race.” It came out as a husky, gravelly thing, and he cleared his throat. “It was me.”

“You’re my soulmate.” It wasn’t a question.

“And you’re mine.” Spot nodded. “Sorry I’m such a disappointment.”

Race only laughed. Maybe he agreed.

“So your words…” Race said, trailing off as he looked down at himself. “They’re really on my stomach right now?”

Spot tilted his head. “More like… the edge of your ribcage. But yeah.”

Perhaps he should have anticipated that- _duh,_ Race would probably want to _see_ the life-changing words on his ribs, and _oh wow,_ the words were _on his ribcage._ Which would require Race to _pull up his shirt_.

And _Christ._

Race had _abs._

Spot had been able to see the toned muscles of Race’s arms during the party, due to the fact that he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, but it hadn't occurred to him that the hard, _attractive_ muscle was elsewhere, too, and now he was probably staring like an idiot.

Thankfully, Race was too busy looking at his stomach to notice Spot ogling his stomach. Because sure enough, there was Spot’s messy scrawl.

_hi_

Such a simple two letters to cause so much drama.

Race let his shirt fall again (Spot mourned the loss of the amazing view of Race’s abs) and looked at Spot, an incredulous expression on his face.

“You’re my soulmate,” he said again.

“Yes.”

“You’re my _soulmate._ ”

“That would be correct.”

“Holy _shit,_ Spot,” Race cried, laughing out loud. “You’re my _soulmate_!”

“We have established-”

But Spot’s smartass comment, muttered under his breath, was cut off as Race’s hands cupped his jaw and his lips met Spot’s once more, and Spot’s breath was stolen from him.

Whoever had told Race that he was a bad kisser was a poor, misinformed soul, and Spot felt momentarily sorry for them.

Because _this,_ this crazy dance, this mix of tongues and lips and teeth and sighs and small noises emitted from backs of throats, _this_ was kissing. This was _living._

And Spot never wanted it to end.

Race brought one hand up to wind itself into Spot’s hair, and _that_ felt _amazing._ Spot might have whimpered. It was hard to tell anymore.

Spot realized that his hands were still by his side, and brought them up, briefly wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with them, before resting one on Race’s hip and letting the other skim ever so gently over Race’s arms, relishing in the goosebumps that he could feel rising on Race’s skin.

“I wanted it to be you,” Race admitted between kisses. “I fell so hard for you, and kept trying to tell myself that I actually had a soulmate.”

“Mm,” Spot agreed. “A perfect other half. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t _allowed_ to like you.”

Race pulled back, keeping one hand in Spot’s hair and the other cradling his jaw, and looked him in the eyes. “You _like_ me?”

“So much,” laughed Spot. “And I would have hoped that that would be obvious, seeing as we _are_ making out on Crutchie’s fire escape…”

“Oh, _Madre di Dio,_ ” Race murmured, eyes darting to the window, where, fortunately, there was a curtain drawn, meaning that the partiers inside had gotten exactly none of their conversation, or the kiss that followed.

“Should we go back in?” Race wondered aloud. “They- I mean, they might wonder what happened to us.”

Spot considered it. “I mean… they know we’ve either killed each other or kissed one another senseless, so…”

“I have a question,” Race said. “Was Crutchie… were he and Jack plotting to get us together this whole time?”

Spot didn’t have to think very hard. “Yes.”

“But… how did they know?”

Spot shrugged. “I wasn’t exactly being subtle about it. And I’m sure Crutchie saw these-” and here he pulled up his shirtsleeves, where the words and patterns and reminders and just random insults matched Race, word for word, “-And put two and two together. Also, our friend group doesn’t know that many Italians.”

“How did you know I was Italian?”

“Dude. You wrote a grocery list _in Italian_ on your arm. We had to get Google to translate it for us. Jack thought it was a love note.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Race snorted. “We were running out of bread.”

“You could never disappoint me,” Spot said, and he hadn't meant for it to sound so sweet, but they were nose-to-nose, exchanging breaths between them, and the softly spoken sentence sounded like a heartfelt confession. Race closed his eyes and sighed happily before leaning in to kiss Spot again.

This kiss was harder and more desperate than the last two, all heavy breaths and the crushing of their lips together, and it wasn’t long before Spot was backed against the rail of the fire escape. The cold metal dug into his back, but he hardly minded, so preoccupied with the warm body pressed against his, the insistent lips mouthing at his own.

Who knew how long it had been… seconds, minutes, when a voice from behind them said,

“Freaking _called_ it.”

They pulled apart and turned to see Crutchie and Jack, standing in the door to the apartment, sporting identical shit-eating grins.

“Damn,” Race said, but to Spot’s delight, he sounded hoarse and thoroughly kissed out and not at all sorry. “You’ve caught us.”

“Whatever shall we do,” Spot continued, in total monotone.

“You’re both assholes,” Jack informed them. “And hypocrites.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Spot snorted. He snaked his arm around Race’s waist, and Race leaned into him, and Spot tried to pretend like that didn’t send a thrill up his spine.

“Well, _you_ owe me ten dollars,” Crutchie said to Jack, poking him in the chest. “And you two-” here he looked at Spot and Race, “have fun. Try to come back in to the party eventually.”

“Be safe,” Jack added, and Crutchie used his crutch to whack him in the shins.

“Shut up, babe. C’mon, let’s leave these two to finish their business.”

He linked arms with Jack and led him back into the apartment, closing the door quietly after them.

Race turned to Spot, and because they were close to each other, their faces got within centimeters of each other. Spot could feel Race’s breath, soft and hot, against his mouth.

“What do you think?” he murmured. “Should we rejoin the party?”

Race hummed noncommittally, looking up at him through heavily-lidded eyes, and Spot would be _damned_ if that wasn’t the single hottest thing ever.

“I mean, Crutchie was right,” he whispered. Their mouths were so close that Spot could just barely feel Race’s lips moving as he spoke.

“And how was he right?”

“We _do_ have unfinished business,” Race said, turning his body so that he was facing Spot now. He used his fingers to ever-so-slightly tilt Spot’s jaw so that he could kiss him once more, and that’s exactly what he did.

 _Screw the party,_ Spot thought, putting his hands on Race’s hips and pulling him even closer. _This is all I need._

~

Right inside the apartment door from the fire escape, still out of sight of the party-goers in the living room, Crutchie pulled Jack into a sloppy kiss.

“What was that for?” Jack asked breathlessly, once they had pulled apart.

“A job well done,” laughed Crutchie. “They _did it._ They found each other.”

“After a few false starts,” Jack said.

“After a _lot_ of false starts,” Crutchie agreed. “And a lot of hating each other. Then again, I almost dumped coffee in your lap the first time I met you.”

“I would have let it happen,” said Jack with a sweet smile. “And I could never hate you, babe.”

“You bloody charmer, you,” Crutchie sighed happily, and pecked him on the mouth. “Let’s get back in there before someone gives Mush back his beer.”

There was a crash and a shriek of, “ _Bli-ink!_ ”

“Too late,” snickered Jack.

Crutchie shrugged. “Oh, well.” He offered his arm to Jack. “Onward we go?”

“To whatever awaits us,” Jack laughed, and led his boyfriend back in to the party.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed!!!
> 
> i'm @to-thc-rcvlution on tumblr- come cry with me


	23. sprace- will you light my candle?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> will you light my candle? with spot and race instead of roger and mimi
> 
> ...i know. just bear with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is by far the most uncreative thing i've ever done- it's literally just a rent au. super short. really random. might suck. (probably sucks)
> 
> (bel i swear this is all your fault) 
> 
> (love you)
> 
> no but seriously one day bel was just like "so i've been thinking of a newsies rent au" and this is the result 
> 
> i would like to formally apologize for a) stealing your idea and b) probably sucking at it 
> 
> oops
> 
> but hey i've needed something to do while all my electronics except my school-issued laptop have been taken from me 
> 
> -.-
> 
> yes
> 
> so if this sucks i'm sorry blame me 
> 
> there'll be another fic (hopefully better, but who knows, man) soon 
> 
> "soon"
> 
> aaaaaaaand here goes nothing 
> 
> -byrd

Spot looked up from his guitar to a knock at the door. Expecting Davey, he got up and answered the door, struggling with the stubborn latch.

“What’d you forget?” but it wasn’t Davey. It was a scrawny, dark-haired guy, who grinned wolfishly as he stepped into the apartment and held up an unlit candle. “Got a light?”

Spot frowned; the guy was vaguely familiar. “I know you,” he said, studying his features, trying to figure out where he’d seen him before. “You’re- oh, you’re shivering.”

“It’s nothing,” said the guy, who was obviously shivering. “They turned off my heat.”

Spot nodded, looking around at his own freezing apartment. _Damn landlords._

 The guy went on, “And I’m just a little weak on my feet- would you light my candle?” He held up his little candle again- really, it was no more than a stub of wax. It wouldn’t keep a flame for very long.

Spot considered the matches in his pocket. He only had a few left, but surely he could spare one to help out this ( _very attractive,_ his brain supplied) person. This person who was _so familiar. Where had Spot seen him before?_

“What are you staring at?” he asked, a defensive expression creeping onto his face.

Spot hadn't been aware he _was_ staring, but now he realized he’d been looking intently at his face, trying to figure out where he’d seen him before. He was their downstairs neighbor… maybe that was it.

“Nothing,” he said, much too quickly for it to be believable. Realizing this, he hurried to elaborate. “I mean, your hair? In the moonlight?” and he wasn’t making things any better. “You look familiar,” he said lamely, taking out his matches and lighting the candle in the guy’s hand.

_Oh, well done, Spot. Scaring off the neighbors now, are we?_

Suddenly, the guy shuddered and leaned against the wall for support. His candle flame flickered dangerously.

“Oh my God,” muttered Spot, because he was trying to imagine Davey walking home to find Spot had just stood there as one of their neighbors died _in their apartment_. “Um… can you make it?”

The guy looked up, a small smile on his face. “Just… haven’t eaten much today.” It was more than that. It was _clearly_ more than that. Not only was he as thin as a rail, he was shaking like a leaf. “At least the room’s stopped spinning, anyway.” A weak laugh.

And then Spot _did_ stare, because when this guy smiled… _oh God._ He reminded Spot of Penelope. Maybe not the facial features, but definitely the smile.

“What?” _Dammit._ He’d been caught staring again.

“Nothing,” he muttered again. He looked at the dirty floor, at his own shoe scuffing the concrete. “Your smile reminded me of-”

“I always _remind people of_ ,” and when Spot looked back up, the guy was scowling, apparently used to being compared to others. “Who were they?”

“She died.” _She killed herself._ Spot’s eyes drifted towards the ground again. Even after so long, Penny was still a sore subject. Davey didn’t bring her up, Spot didn’t talk about her. “Her name was Penny.”

“It’s out again,” the guy said suddenly, and Spot looked back up to find that the candle had gone out. “You’re _straight?_ ” His face whitened. “I mean, I’m sorry about your friend.” He looked down at his extinguished candle. “Would you light my candle?”

Spot huffed and lit another match. “I’m _bi,_ ” he corrected, lighting the tiny candle once more, which received an “ _oh_ ” from the guy.

Silence, as the guy watched his candle and Spot watched him.

Finally, if only to break the silence, Spot said, “Well…”

Dark brown eyes lifted their gaze from the flickering flame to Spot. “Yeah?”

 _Um._ Spot hadn't thought this far ahead. He desperately searched his brain for something witty to say, but the guy saved him by burning his fingers on the tiny candle stub. “ _Ow!_ ”

“Oh, the wax,” Spot murmured unhelpfully. “It’s-”

“Dripping,” the guy finished, and that sly smile was back. He began to move closer to Spot, until their chests were practically pressed together. “I like it between my-”

 _“Fingers_ ,” Spot said firmly, backing up, because this guy may have been hot as hell, but he couldn’t deal with this. Any of this. Not now, so soon after Penny.  “I figured.”

More awkward silence. The guy checked his fingers, but it must not have been a bad burn, because he went right back to holding the candle.

“Oh, well.” A terrible opener, Spot knew, but he wanted to get back to his song. “Good night.”

Which was just a terribly unsubtle way to say _please get out._

~

Race made it all the way to the door before realizing that the little plastic bag was no longer in his pocket.

“ _Shit,_ ” he muttered, patting his pockets. No luck. He checked the floor, panic seeping into him. Maybe he’d dropped it.

“It blew out again?”

Race glanced down at his candle. “No.” Thank goodness. He didn’t want to take up any more of this guy’s matches, because he knew firsthand how precious they were.

Tell this guy what he was looking for, or leave it be and hope that Race found it first?

_Screw it._

“I think that I dropped my stash…” Now he just had to pray that this guy didn’t ask for specifications as to what exactly his _stash_ consisted of. “I know I’ve seen you out and about… when I used to go out,” the guy said, frowning, and _was he really still on that point_? _Yes,_ he’d probably seen Race before. Half of goddamn _New York_ had seen Race before, although almost none of them realized it.

“Your candle’s out,” the guy pointed out, and Race followed his gaze to see that, yes, indeed, the weak little flame had given up. He couldn’t find it in himself to care, though, instead putting all his effort to finding his baggy, moving around the guy into his apartment.

Rude and uncivilized? Perhaps. But he _had_ to find it before that _guy_ did.

“I’m illin’, I had it when I walked through the door,” he muttered to himself, checking his pockets one more time. No luck. “It was _pure,_ dammit.”

It wasn’t on the coffee table, or the couch, and he could hear desperation creeping into his tone when he muttered, “Is it on the floor?”

He got down under the table, hearing the guy repeat, “The floor?”

And _was it Race’s imagination, or was his tone slightly… off?_

Well… he _had_ said that he wasn’t straight.

“They say that I have the best ass below 14th Street,” Race ventured, and he _might,_ just _might,_ have adjusted his posture just a bit so that it was impossible _not_ to look. “Is it true?”

“What?” And _yes,_ that was definitely a yelp. _Busted._

“You’re staring again,” Race snorted, turning his body around so that he was sitting, looking up at the guy’s (very red) face.

“Oh, _no,_ ” and that was _denial._ Denial was always… interesting to deal with. “I mean, you do have a nice…” He closed his eyes and turned away, and Race resisted the urge to laugh out loud.

“I _mean,_ ” the guy hurried to add. “You look familiar.”

Race’s smile died on his face. “Like your _dead girlfriend,_ ” he sighed, because he just _loved_ that comparison.

The guy shook his head. “Only when you smile, but _I’m sure…_ ” He shook his head. “I’m _sure_ I’ve seen you somewhere else.”

Race sighed, already regretting what he was about to say. “Do you go to the Cat Scratch Club?” he asked as he got to his feet. “That’s where I work.”

The guy frowned, still obviously not getting it. Not understanding.

“I dance,” Race elaborated, and he saw the realization on the guy’s face. Quickly, to change the subject, he hissed, “Help me _look_!” and swatted at the guy’s arm without much power.

“Yes,” and _oh no he was going to stay on the subject of Race being a club dancer, wasn’t he?_ “They used to tie you up…”

Race rolled his eyes. “It’s a living, man.” Just because it (barely) paid the bills didn’t mean he had to like it.

“I didn’t recognize you without the handcuffs,” the guy continued with a cheeky grin. Race glared and smacked his shoulder.

“Shut up, ass, and light my candle,” he snapped, and held out his candle, watching as it was relit once more.

“Why don’t you forget that stuff?” the guy asked, and it took Race a second to realize he was referring to the drugs that he’d lost. “You look like you’re sixteen.”

“I’m _nineteen_ ,” Race corrected, “and I’m old for my age. Besides.” He grinned. “I was just _born_ to be bad.”

“I once was born to be bad,” scoffed the guy, and Race shouldn’t have been so hurt by his judgmental tone. “I used to shiver like that, you know.”

Oh, so now he was playing the good guy. Fine. Race could counter that.

“I have no heat, I told you-” he began, but he was cut off.

“I used to sweat.”

“I’ve got a cold-” he protested.

“Uh-huh,” only it sounded more like _sure, kid._ “I used to be a junkie.”

Well.

Wasn’t _that_ just hitting the nail right on the head.

Race opened his mouth, but he didn’t have an excuse ready for that, so he just said, “Now and then I like to... _feel good._ ”

“Uh-huh,” but now it sounded more like _I know, believe me._ “Oh, here.”

Race’s eyes snapped upward, because _had he found it?_ Thank _God._ “What’s that?”

“Oh… nothing. A candy bar wrapper,” the guy muttered, tucking whatever-it-was into his pocket.

Race narrowed his eyes, because he’d come across a lot of bad liars in his life, but this guy was honestly one of the _worst._

He cocked his head and moved closer, almost as close as before, so that they were chest-to-chest. “We could light the candle,” he said huskily.

Instead of backing up, the guy licked his fingers and put out Race’s flickering flame.

“What the hell did you do to my candle?” Race cried, outraged.

The guy smiled, completely unapologetic. “That was my last match.”

“Our eyes will adjust,” Race conceded with a shrug, because _hey man, they’re_ your _matches._ “Thank God for the moon, right?”

“Maybe it’s not the moon at all… I hear Spike Lee shooting down the street.”

“Bah humbug,” snorted Race, and he stepped closer. As he’d guessed, the guy came back to his senses and backed up a step. “Bah humbug,” he repeated, gentler this time, and, throwing caution to the winds, he took one of the guy’s hands into his own.

The guy shivered, and Race grinned. “Cold hands,” the guy said defensively.

“Yours too,” Race murmured, holding their hands up to each other for comparison. Held against this guy’s hand, his own was _tiny._ “Big. Like my father’s.” But then, Race had gotten his mother’s tiny hands.

He held their entwined hands out, like they were ballroom dancing. “Do you want to dance?”

“With you?”

“Such an incredulous tone,” sighed Race. “No, with my _father,_ stupid.” He went into a twirl, using the guy’s hand to spin himself.

“I’m Sean. Spot, I mean. I’m Spot,” and his tone was so _flustered,_ he was so _adorable,_ Race could hardly stand it.

“I’m Tony,” Race said in a low voice, coming out of the spin and wrapping his arms around Spot. _This part was tricky,_ he thought. _Easy, now._

He slipped two fingers into Spot’s back pocket, and they closed around the baggy that Spot had stashed in there. Pulling it out delicately, he grabbed it with his other hand and brought it around to wave it teasingly in Spot’s face.

“But they call me Race,” he added, stowing the drugs in his waistband and laughing at the look on Spot’s face.

He waved, really just a little ripple of fingers, and strutted out the door, doing his best not to pump his fists in victory until he was out of Spot’s apartment.

It was hard, but he managed.

~

Spot stood there for about five more minutes after Race had left, wondering what the hell had just happened to him.

“This is the weirdest effing place,” he muttered, and turned to go back to his song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sORRY 
> 
> but hey come and talk to me on @to-thc-rcvolution.... i'll see it when i get back on tumblr
> 
> *stares wistfully out window* someday
> 
> EDIT: ok so i have officially been bitten by the rent au bug and if people WANT i mean i've got lots of ideas
> 
> crappy ideas 
> 
> but ideas regardless
> 
> so tell me whether or not you liked this, and i'll base my continuation (or not) of this on your reactions alright? alright. peace.


	24. rent au part 2- sprace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as requested- more sprace rent au!!! yay!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one asked for this 
> 
> i'm sorry
> 
> jk someone did 
> 
> yeet

~

Spot had just leaned forward, grinning, to clink glasses with Jack when he heard the scream from below.

“ _Davey! Spot!_ Anyone- help!”

All three of them looked toward the window, their smiles freezing on their faces, because it was Katherine, and she was _panicked._

“Kath?” Davey asked, rising to his feet.

“It’s Race!” she called back. “ _Please,_ I can’t get him up the stairs!”

“Shit,” Jack muttered, and Spot tried to remember how to breathe.

It had been weeks, _weeks,_ since any of them had seen or heard from Race, so Spot had (naturally) assumed the worst. Race had gotten back into drugs. Race was trapped in a bad part of the city. He had been kidnapped. He had been killed. He was dying under a bridge somewhere.

Now apparently, he had turned back up, and Katherine sounded like she was about to cry.

 _Can’t get him up the stairs?_ That meant he was too weak to walk.

“ _No,_ ” Spot cried, jumping up and sprinting down the stairs and out of the apartment.

Too thin, Spot thought as he gently took Race from and Katherine and Sarah and carried him upstairs to the apartment. Race was much too thin, shuddering in Spot’s arms.

 _He’s here,_ Spot thought, hardly daring to believe it. It had been weeks, _weeks,_ since any of them had heard from or seen Race, and he was _here. Now._

And he looked _awful._ Pale and weak, his face was covered with sweat despite the fact that he was shaking like a leaf, and with every rattling breath, Spot could feel another piece of his heart breaking.

Katherine talked the entire way up the stairs, but Spot was barely listening, instead choosing to focus on the shivering boy in his arms. _Please don’t die._

“He was huddled in the park,” Katherine wheezed as they made their way up the steps and into the apartment. “In the _dark,_ oh, and he was _freezing,_ Spot, it was awful. He begged to come here.”

 _Here?_ There was nothing spectacular about Spot and Davey’s place- for goodness’ sakes, they didn’t even have _heat_ most of the time. There was no logical reason Race, as desperate as his situation was, would want to come here, unless…

 _No._ Spot got rid of that thought before it had the chance to fully form. _Definitely not._ That was wishful thinking, and he knew it.

“Over here,” he muttered as Sarah pushed open the apartment door, and gently set Race down on the table that Jack and Davey had cleared off, accepting the pillow that Sarah passed him and tucking it under Race’s head. “Oh, _God,_ Race…”

“Got a light?” Race murmured through his chattering teeth. “I know you…” he laughed quietly, and something inside Spot’s chest clenched. “You’re shivering….”

“He’s lost it,” Jack murmured behind Spot, and Spot would have shot him a glare, except he didn’t want to take his eyes off Race.

“He’s been living on the street,” Sarah whispered, sounding horrified.

Spot reached out and ever-so-gently stroked a sweaty strand of hair off Race’s forehead. “We need some heat in this shitty apartment,” he said, just as Race whispered, “ _I’m_ shivering,” and grabbed Spot’s hand that had been caressing his forehead.

Davey raised a hand. “We can buy some wood,” he suggested. “A-and something to eat?”

“I’m afraid he needs more than heat.” Jack was already at the phone.

“I heard that,” whispered Race.

Katherine made a soothing noise and tucked a blanket around Race. “Jack will call for a doctor, honey.”

Race shook his head vigorously- or as vigorously as he could in his weakened state. “Don’t waste your money on me.”

“Hello, 911?” Spot could hear Jack asking. Then he turned to the rest of them, panic on his face. “I’m on hold!” he hissed.

“Cold,” muttered Race, shuddering and curling tighter into himself, gripping Spot’s hand tight. “So _cold._ Would you…” He looked hopefully at Spot. “Would you light my candle?”

 _He’s delirious,_ thought Spot, even as he said, “Yes, of course, we’ll-” Race went into a coughing fit, wheezing, hacking coughs that pained Spot to listen to, and clenched Spot’s hand tighter than ever. “Oh _God,_ find a candle,” Spot finished.

“I should tell you,” whispered Race, once the coughing had subsided. “I should-” Another cough. “Tell you.”

“I should tell _you_ ,” Spot said, because there was so much to say, and it wasn’t looking like he had much time. “No, Race, I should tell _you._ ”

“I should tell you that Benny- Benny wasn’t any-”

“Shh,” said Spot, because thrilling as this information was, now wasn’t the time. “I know,” he murmured, because it seemed like the thing to say. “I should tell you-” His voice broke. “Why I left. It wasn’t cause I didn’t-”

“I know,” sighed Race, his eyes drifting shut for a moment before opening again. “I should tell you…”

“I should tell _you_ ,” Spot pressed.

“ _I should tell you_ ,” and now Race was whispering, “I love- _you…_ ”

 _You_ was nothing but an exhale, and Race’s eyes fell closed as his hand went limp in Spot’s.

“ _No,_ ” whispered Spot, and he wasn’t even aware of the tears pouring down his cheeks until they fell onto Race’s blanket. He allowed himself to cry for a moment, then looked up, suddenly angry.

“Who do you think you are,” he hissed, rage fueling him through his next words.

“Leaving me, alone with my guitar?” _Rage,_ not at Race but at death for taking him, for stealing him.

A thought occurred to him. “Hold on,” he muttered, resolve setting in. Race couldn’t be gone. Not yet. He hadn't heard his song yet. “There’s something you should hear.” Perhaps it was ridiculous, talking to a dead boy like he had any control over when he got to die. “It isn't much…” He sighed. “But it _did_ take all year.”

~

Race was so _cold._

He had curled up on that freezing cold bench in the park with the intent of dying. He didn’t expect to ever wake up again, nor was he sure he ever wanted to. 

But when he saw Katherine and Sarah approaching, heard Sarah’s shriek, he changed his mind. He still expected to die. He just didn’t want to do it _here._ He wanted to see Spot one more time.

So he had begged, delirious as it may have sounded, and they had complied, bringing him here.

At least he had gotten to see Spot, hold his hand, tell him that he loved him, which was the _truth_ , and he’d been a fool to try and deny it, before he died.

Because surely this was death. He’d felt _so cold,_ the cold table underneath him, Spot’s cold hand in his own, and then… nothing. Disorientation. The feeling of emptiness. And when he woke, if you can call it waking, he found himself in a tunnel.

Long and dark, almost like a subway tunnel, save for the fact that there were no tracks, no maintenance doors, no railings, no signs that were found in a normal subway tunnel. Just… darkness.

He walked forward soundlessly, cautiously, and came to a bend in the tunnel that hadn't been there before. It had just _appeared._ And at the end of this bend was glowing light. Daylight, maybe, or whatever was waiting on the other side for him. Heaven? Hell? Some eternal void?

“Race.”

Race turned around to find someone standing there, dressed all in white, with a slight glow surrounding them, as if someone behind them were shining a spotlight on them.

“Crutchie,” whispered Race, and his old friend grinned.

“Hey, Race,” Crutchie said, bright eyes sparkling.

“We’re dead,” Race guessed, no doubt in his voice, because whatever doubts he may have had about this place vanished. Crutchie had died. Race had been to their funeral. So therefore he must be dead too.

Crutchie tilted their head. “We are. But I’m here, Race. What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m here,” Crutchie said again. “But you… you’ve got to go back.”

“Go back? As in, back _there_?” Race pointed behind him. “Back to…”

“Back to life,” Crutchie agreed. “You’ve got to.”

“I-I do?”

Crutchie nodded, coming forward to hug him, and Race noticed for the first time that their crutch was gone. The plain wooden thing that had given Crutchie their nickname and burdened them for all their life was gone, along with their deformed leg. Dying and becoming an angel, or whatever manifestation of Crutchie he was seeing right now, apparently did wonders for bad legs.

“Your crutch,” Race noted, and Crutchie only smiled, wrapping their arms around Race and holding him tight, and Race wasn’t normally a hugger, but there was something in the feeling of being _held,_ especially by Crutchie, who Race had missed dearly. He inhaled their scent- perfume and warmth and smoke and _sunshine,_ and relished in the embrace before Crutchie pulled away.

“Turn around, Race,” Crutchie whispered, holding him at arm’s length and smiling through tears that must have sprung up during their hug. “Turn around and listen to that boy’s song.”

 _Spot,_ Race instantly thought. “Crutchie, I’ve got to go back. I’ve got to see Spot.”

Crutchie nodded. “I know.” Then they laughed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Go back, Race. Listen to his song.”

Race turned to go, then looked back, at the angel that was his dead friend. “And what about you? Can’t you come back?”

Crutchie shook their head. “I’ll stay here,” they said quietly. “I’m waiting for someone. But you…” They closed their eyes, then opened them again. “You’ve got some time. Use it well, Race.”

“Good bye, Crutchie,” murmured Race.

Then he turned and ran back, to Spot, to the song he was singing _for Race._ To life.

~

Spot was crying again by the last verse, because this stupid, _stupid_ boy had gone and gotten himself killed and Spot would never be able to see his smile again. Never get to hear his gorgeous laugh, or appreciate the way his eyes lit up when he was happy.

_Your eyes… Oh God, I’ll miss your eyes the most, Race._

He finished his song with a quiet “In _my eyes…_ ” letting the note hang in the air. Then he cried, “ _Race,_ ” and everything went deathly silent as he hung his head and cried freely for the first time in ages.

All was quiet in the apartment. No one spoke, or moved, or did anything. They didn’t even seem to breathe.

Which is why it was all the more surprising when Race gasped. His eyes flew open ( _those gorgeous eyes_ ) and he looked around for a moment, disoriented, before resting his gaze on Spot.

“Spot,” he whispered, and Spot made some sort of sound akin to a whimper before engulfing Race in a hug that probably took Race’s breath away and _definitely_ wasn’t good for someone who’d just… what? Died and then come back? That didn’t happen.

“Spot,” Race murmured again, and there was an incredulous laugh from behind them. Spot detached his arms from around Race and turned to see his friends, grinning.

“You’re back!” cried Sarah, laughing, and Katherine kissed her cheek.

“I’ve _got_ to hear this one,” Jack said, folding his arms, but there was a good-natured grin on his face.

“I was in this tunnel, heading for this warm, white light,” Race recalled.

“Oh, God,” Katherine muttered.

“And I swear…” Race closed his eyes for a moment, apparently basking in the memory. “I _swear,_ Crutchie was there.”

Something like a yelp made its way out of Jack’s throat, and he leaned forward, determined not to miss a word.

“Don’t worry, Jack,” said Race with a light laugh, “they looked _good._ ”

Jack laughed too, that same incredulous laugh as before.

“And they said,” Race whispered, turning to look right into Spot’s eyes. “They said, ‘turn around, Race, and listen to that boy’s song.’”

Jack choked, and tears filled his eyes. Davey clapped a comforting hand to his shoulder, but Jack pulled him into a hug instead, and Katherine moved to kiss him on the cheek.

“You’re drenched in sweat,” Spot murmured, “and you’re getting it all over me.” Race didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he said, completely unapologetically.  Spot felt his forehead, because surely if he was being sarcastic, all hope was not lost, and found that it was cool to the touch.

“His forehead’s not hot,” he said, and Sarah smiled. Katherine jumped up and down and clapped.

“His fever’s broken!” she squealed, and kissed her girlfriend on the mouth while Sarah tried and failed to look annoyed.

“There is no future,” murmured Davey.

“There is no past,” added Jack with a laugh, slinging an arm around his friend.

Spot closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath of relief. “Thank God this moment’s not your last,” he told Race, leaning forward to press their foreheads together, but Race had other ideas. He closed the distance between their mouths, grabbing the front of Spot’s old jacket and tugging him into a hot, messy kiss.

“There’s only us, babe,” he whispered against Spot’s mouth, once they pulled apart for air. “Only this.”

“Forget regret, or life is ours to miss,” Spot agreed, then kissed him again.

“No other road,” Sarah chimed in, and Katherine cried, “No other way!”

~

 _No day but today,_ Race thought, relishing in the feeling of Spot’s lips against his, Spot’s worn and loved jacket in his fists. _And I intend to use today wisely, Crutchie._

_No day but today._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so the song lyrics translated into dialogue were super awkward???
> 
> 1) i'm sorry
> 
> 2) i don't care
> 
> much love
> 
> i'm @to-thc-rcvolution !!! come say hi!!!


	25. Flower shop au- jackcrutchie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How do you say fuck you in flower?" jackcrutchie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy H E k c byrd is baaaaaack 
> 
> hi guys! did you miss me? the Summer Without A Laptop was... v painful. v v painful
> 
> anyways this is from a prompt on tumblr (I have it posted there too- i'm @to-thc-rcvolution!!! come say hi/give me prompts!)
> 
> hope y'all enjoy- i'm back in school so I should have a regular updating schedule now?
> 
> emphasis on the "should"
> 
> hah
> 
> here goes nothing 
> 
> -byrd

Crutchie had been working at Mush’s uncle’s flower shop for over a year now, so he considered himself well-adjusted to the strange orders and customers and situations each day brought. There were regular customers, like the old woman who bought a few roses every Saturday to bring to her husband in the hospital, the high school guy who came in pretending to be interested in the flowers, but he never bought anything and spent all of his time in the shop gazing adoringly at Katherine, which both Katherine and her girlfriend Sarah thought was hilarious, the girl who came in occasionally to buy flowers for her neighbor, who she was trying to woo and then ask out, and more. Crutchie knew several of them by name and could typically guess what they wanted before they walked in the door. He loved his job.

But he also loved his job for the newcomers, the people who he’d never seen before, who came in, bought some flowers, and then left, some of them never to be seen again. He loved hearing their stories, how this girl was planning a blue color-schemed wedding, how this man bought a bouquet every year on his wedding anniversary to lay on his partner’s grave, how this little boy wanted to impress a girl in his class.

And the Hate Bouquet guy, who stormed in thirty minutes before closing time, making a beeline for where Crutchie was sitting and smacking a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.

“Um, welcome to Meyer’s Flower Shop?” Crutchie asked, scanning the guy’s face and coming up with dark hair, darker eyes, and a _gorgeous_ face. A gorgeous face that was currently looking livid as hell, but whatever. “What can I do for you today?”

He frowned, then seemed to compose himself. A hesitant smile came onto his face, and he looked down. “So there’s this guy.”

“Oh?” said Crutchie mildly, leaning forward.

His dark eyes narrowed. “Not like that. I don’t like him.”

“Denial, then,” Crutchie said with a slight grin. “I can work with that.”

“No, like I actually hate his guts,” the customer said earnestly. “I mean, I used to like him. I used to love him. And then he cheated on me.”

Crutchie winced. “I can see how that would cause some... negative feelings.”

“And so I was wondering…” He sighed. “I want a bouquet.”

“Please, oh please dear Lord in heaven, _please_ , do not tell me you’re trying to get back together with him,” Crutchie blurted suddenly. He wasn’t normally one to interfere in total strangers’ lives, but this was a special case.

The guy seemed a bit taken aback. “I’m not,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “I’m not, I swear. I was wondering… it’s kind of a weird question.”

“Shoot.”

“Like, you’re actually probably going to judge me-”

“You cannot say a thing in this world that would surprise me right now,” Crutchie deadpanned. “I just got off the phone with a customer who wanted a bouquet of stems.”

“…Stems?”

“Stems. I wish I was kidding,” Crutchie said. “They wanted me to pull the head of the flowers off and make a bouquet of stems. Do you want a bouquet of stems?”

“Okay, it’s not quite that weird,” the guy admitted. “I just… okay. How do you say ‘fuck you’ in flower?”

Crutchie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Shit.” The guy closed his eyes. “Was that even weirder? Shit, I’m sorry, I-”

“Shut up please,” Crutchie said, holding up a hand. “Just… hold on. _What?_ ”

“Okay, so. I need a hate bouquet for this asshole,” he said simply.

“Why?”

“Because he-”

“Cheated on you,” Crutchie finished. “Right. I heard you the first time. But…” He shook his head. “Why would you waste money on a bouquet for such an asshole?”

“Okay, do you want the long version or the short one?”

Crutchie glanced around. There was an old man in the corner surveying the fridges full of flowers, but he hadn’t made any move towards the counter to order yet, and besides, Katherine was working the other counter if he needed assistance.

“I’m only here for another twenty-five minutes,” he said, scooting the stool forward and propping his elbows on the counter, setting his head in his hands. “But sure, go crazy.”

“Okay, so I met this guy in the second grade when he handed me a flower and told me I was very cute,” the guy said, a slight pink twinging his cheeks. “And then in middle school, he would stick flowers in my locker. Usually daisies, since they grew in the field beside his house. Then in tenth grade, when we actually started dating, we would give each other flowers instead of, like, chocolate or jewelry or shit. So flowers are our thing. Super cheesy, but I was infatuated with everything about him. And then he cheated on me, and he didn’t even tell me. I found out from the girl he got with. As far as I know…” He sighed, scuffing a foot on the floor. “As far as I know, he still has no idea that I know.”

“Oh dear,” Crutchie murmured. “Alright, so you want to mess with him by giving him flowers? Because they’re your _thing_?”

“Bingo,” he said. “So I’ll ask again. How would you say ‘screw you and all you stand for’ in flower?”

“I can’t get you the exact words,” Crutchie said, “since flowers don’t work like that. But I can give the general message, assuming he knows flowers?”

“Flowers are his life,” he confirmed. “If anyone could spot an offensive bouquet, it would be him.”

“Alright, so you want orange lilies, then.” Crutchie got up from his stool, tucking his crutch under his arm and making his way over to the fridges full of chilled flowers.

“What do orange lilies mean in flower language?” the guy asked.

“Hatred,” Crutchie said, and he was unable to hide his grin, because never before had he been asked to make a bouquet like this. He loved his job. “You’re also going to want yellow carnations.”

“Which mean…”

“Disappointment,” Crutchie filled in, tapping the door of the fridge where the carnations were. “Or more literally, ‘you have disappointed me.’”

“Perfect,” and _oh,_ Crutchie _really_ regretted turning around to meet the customer’s eyes, because his already very attractive face was even more attractive with a shit-eating grin on it. “What else?”

“Geraniums,” Crutchie murmured, leaving a trail in the condensation on the fridge door with his finger as he dragged it across the rows of flowers. “Geraniums mean stupidity.”

The guy hummed. “Excellent.”

“Also foxglove,” Crutchie said, pointing them out. “Insincerity. Should be appropriate for a disloyal partner, right? And…” He scanned the rows and rows of flowers. “Meadowsweet? I think that’s right. Hey, Kath?”

“Yes,” she replied, without looking up from her laptop. “Yes, that’s what you want.”

“Because don’t meadowsweet mean-”

“Utter uselessness,” she supplied, eyes still on her screen. “You’re doing great, Crutch.”

“Crutch?” the guy asked. “Isn’t that a little…”

“Straightforward? Obvious?” Crutchie asked.

“I was going to say _mean_ , but if you’re alright with it.” He shrugged. “So she calls you Crutch. What’s your real name? Because I can't keep calling you _Cute Flower Guy_ in my head.”

“Crutchie,” Crutchie said, desperately trying to ignore the _he thinks you’re cute! He thinks you’re cute!_ looping in his head. “My name’s Crutchie.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had the crutch since I was little. It’s a defining feature of mine.”

“Okay, but I refuse to believe that your parents named you _Crutchie._ What’s your real name?”

“Depends,” Crutchie said, mulling over the idea in his head. “Are you going to give me your name?”

“Kelly. Jack. Jack Kelly.”

“Kelly Jack or Jack Kelly?” Crutchie asked, trying to hide his laugh and failing miserably.

The guy sighed. “Sorry. Hi, I’m Jack, and we’re going to pretend like I didn’t just make a complete idiot of myself.”

“Agreed,” Crutchie said, opening the fridge and taking out the carnations and lilies. He settled the two bunches of flowers in the crook of one arm and carefully made his way back across the shop to the counter, crutch making a slight clicking noise as he walked.

“So, _Crutchie,_ ” Jack said, drawing out the last syllable, as he followed Crutchie to the counter and then back to the fridges so that he could get the rest of the flowers. “What’s your real name?”

Crutchie opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the front door opening with a cheerful _ding!_ He and Jack both looked to see a girl come into the shop, with a sweet, dollish face and long brown hair tied back into a braid.

“Hey, Sarah,” Crutchie called, and she acknowledged the greeting with a little wave as she made her way over to where Katherine was still tapping away at her laptop. Katherine didn’t notice her creeping up, but when she tapped her girlfriend on the head, Kath looked up.

“Saz!” she cried happily, and accepted a peck on the lips.

“I’ve got us reservations at Jake’s in twenty minutes,” Sarah said, and Katherine looked down at her uniform with a frown, then up at Crutchie.

“Do you think I could… go?” she asked. “I need to get ready, and if you’ve got this guy covered…”

Crutchie brought his armful of flowers back to his counter and considered the clock. About fifteen minutes left on their shift. “You’re good. Go on.”

“You’re a treasure, Crutch!” Sarah called, tugging her girlfriend out of her chair and through the shop to the door. “Love you!”

“Have fun!” Crutchie yelled after them, then turned back to Jack. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I was finding out your real name?” Jack asked, sounding hopeful.

“Were you?” Crutchie asked mildly, taking out his flower clippers. “That’s interesting.”

“Why won’t you tell me?” Jack whined, sticking out his lower lip.

Crutchie only hummed in reply, arranging all the flowers that he had cut into a bouquet and wrapping it in orange paper- the most garish color they had.

“Come on, it’s not a nuclear code, it’s your _name_ , it’s not that important,” Jack said with a laugh. Then he seemed to sober up, his face becoming more solemn. “Unless you aren’t comfortable sharing it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be teasing, that’s not right-”

“Hey,” Crutchie said, reaching out and laying a hand over Jack’s, very effectively shutting him up. He tried not to take note of how warm and solid Jack’s hand felt under his. Naturally, he failed miserably. “Hey, you’re fine. I’m comfortable sharing it, it’s alright. It’s Charlie.”

“Hey, Charlie.” A slight smirk crept onto Jack’s face, making him about six times more attractive. Crutchie was very proud of his self-control, since what he really wanted to do was scream out loud.

Instead, he smiled back. “It’s Crutchie, actually.” He squeezed Jack’s hand, then let it go so that he could get back to making the hate bouquet, and Jack kept his hand on the counter for a moment longer before withdrawing it.

Crutchie finished the bouquet, tying it off with a ghastly green ribbon and presenting it to Jack with a dramatic flourish. “Your Screw You Bouquet, sir.”

“Why, thank you,” Jack said, accepting the flowers with equal flair. “I’m sure they will be well-received.”

Crutchie watched him go, something like a fond smile on his face.

~

The next day, Crutchie was working the front counter again when Jack came back, this time about twenty minutes before closing time.

“Jack Kelly,” he called. “A pleasure.”

“How could it be anything but, when it’s me?” Jack laughed, taking a bow as he approached the counter. “So I need another one of those bouquets. It was very well-received.”

Crutchie frowned. “And by _well-received,_ you mean-”

“I mean he only threatened to kill me… once? Twice? It was a pretty good conversation, as far as breakup conversations go. Art people are very dramatic.”

“Try theater students,” Crutchie challenged.

“I see your theater people and raise you a drunk art history major in the midst of a nasty breakup,” Jack replied. “And now I’d like another _Screw You_ Bouquet.”

“Is that their official name?” Crutchie asked, mentally filing away _he’s an art major. Interesting._ Not surprising at all, but fascinating.

“Yes,” Jack said, at the same time as Katherine, who was reorganizing a shelf of flowers right beside Crutchie’s counter.

“I’m considering putting them on the website,” Katherine said. “Do you know how many people could benefit from a hate bouquet?”

Crutchie shrugged. “I mean, I’ve never needed one before…”

“That’s because you’re a cinnamon roll whose breakups are all beautiful and movie-perfect and end in wonderful friendships and _we’ll stay in touch_ s that actually work,” Kath snapped.

Crutchie opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, because he actually couldn’t think of a bad breakup he’d had.

“Lucky,” Jack whispered. “All my breakups have been _awful_.”

“I wonder why, _art major_ ,” Katherine sighed to the flowers she was shelving, and Crutchie covered his mouth to hide a snort.

“I’ll make you another one,” he promised. “As long as you swear to me that you won’t get yourself murdered by this guy, because I can’t afford to take time off work to go testify in court that yes, I was aware that you were _deliberately provoking this person_ , and no, I _didn’t_ do anything about it.”

“I swear it,” Jack said around a laugh, handing him a twenty-dollar bill.

Once the bouquet was made and Jack was gone, leaving the shop empty, Katherine whistled. “You’ve got it _bad,_ Crutch.”

Crutchie whipped around to make sure Jack was really gone before turning to her. “What are you talking about?”

He had been trying for a neutral, innocent tone, but it came out more like a squeak, and he was sure his face was flaming red. _Dammit._

“I’m talking about the way that your eyes never left his face the entire time he was here,” Katherine replied.

“Eye contact is a good communication skill,” Crutchie mumbled half-heartedly.

“Constant eye contact? The entire time? With an adoring look on your face?” Kath countered. “Not to mention the fact that every time he smiled at you, your entire body seized up like you were going into cardiac arrest.”

“Okay, so he’s cute. And nice,” Crutchie admitted. “Doesn’t mean he likes me back, so what’s the point?”

Katherine squinted at him. “Is there something wrong with your eyesight, too? Did you not see the way he was looking right back at you with the same lovestruck expression?”

When Crutchie just stared blankly at her, she let out a groan. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Might I remind you that it took you and a certain Miss Jacobs _two full years_ to get your crap together,” Crutchie pointed out.

She waved that aside. “Unimportant. What matters is that we’re together now. So what are you going to do about Jack?”

“What is there to do?” Crutchie asked honestly, looking down at the clippers he was passing from hand to hand. “Even if he likes me back, he might not, like, _like-like_ me.”

“Please tell me you did not in fact just use the phrase _like-like_ ,” Katherine said exasperatedly. “Charlie Morris, so help me God, we are not in middle school. Just…” She gestured vaguely with her hands. “Go for it! What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“He could laugh in my face and reject me,” Crutchie said, putting the clippers back in their drawer. “He could hate me forever and never come here again.”

“So?” Katherine shot back. “You don’t work with him. You don’t go to school with him. Chances are, you’ll never see him again anyways unless you speak up.”

Crutchie made a half-groaning noise and buried his face in his hands.

“Hey, it’ll be alright,” she soothed, coming over to him and petting his hair. “You don’t have to tell him, babe. One way or another, you’ll be fine.”

Crutchie only sighed, trying his best to believe it.

~

The next day, Jack returned, requesting the same bouquet and flashing that same infuriating smile.

Crutchie didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find the nerve, couldn’t bring himself to tell Jack how he really felt, because there was always the chance that Kath had been wrong, that Jack didn’t feel the same way.

~

It happened the next day, too.

~

By the fifth day in a row of Jack coming to the shop, Crutchie had memorized the numbers required to ring up the purchase of the Screw You bouquet, and when the man in question came strolling through the doors, Crutchie’s fingers hovered over the cash register, ready to take the order down.

But Jack held up a hand, signaling for him to _wait._

“I want a different bouquet today,” he said, and Katherine, coming out of the back room, gasped in mock horror.

“ _No,_ ” she whispered. “You’re passing up your _signature bouquet?_ How _could_ you, Kelly?”

He shrugged, a sheepish expression on his face. “Sorry, guys. Maybe the person I’m trying to woo will break my heart and I’ll go back to my normal flower order. But for today…” He leaned on the counter, fixing those dark brown eyes on Crutchie and grinning in that Jack Kelly-ish way that sent Crutchie’s insides into a mode of panic. “I need a romantic bouquet. Can you help me out?”

A romantic bouquet.

A _romantic_ bouquet.

_A romantic bouquet._

Crutchie ran the words over and over again on a loop in his mind, but he still couldn’t make sense of them. Jack Kelly? Asking for a bouquet to win someone over? It wasn’t lining up in his head.

So Jack didn’t like him after all, he thought, feeling a shooting pain in his chest that he attributed to shock and then the crushing blow of reality. Jack liked someone else. _Jack liked someone else._ Not Crutchie.

It had never been Crutchie, he realized, and he had been naïve to think so.

 _Professional. Act professional,_ he thought, and plastered a smile onto his face that he hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt.

“Of course,” he said, and was relieved to find that his teasing tone didn’t sound forced. “Who’s the lucky person?”

“Oh, he’s fantastic,” and it was evident in Jack’s tone just how fantastic he found them. “He’s so cute, Crutchie, you don’t even understand. He’s got this gorgeous smile where his eyes light up and he gets dimples in his cheeks and…” He shook his head. “I don’t think he knows I exist, though.”

Crutchie resisted the urge to scream. “Yes, how awful that must be,” he said through gritted teeth. “But hey, that’s what the flowers are for, right? What are his favorite colors?”

Jack had to think about it. “Yellow. And I’m pretty sure he likes blue, too.”

 _Those are my favorite colors,_ Crutchie thought, as a stab of jealousy shot through him. In an alternate universe, under opposite circumstances, if Crutchie had just _sucked it the hell up_ and told Jack how he felt, Jack could be buying Crutchie these flowers. Not some random stranger.

“Lovely colors,” he commented, turning towards the flower fridges. “Yellow’s bright and cheerful, and blue’s a very calming color. Balances it out. I’ll put some white in there too, to add a little bit to it. Is that alright?”

“Perfect,” Jack said, closing his eyes as if envisioning the bouquet.

Crutchie gathered the flowers he needed and started on arranging them, trying not to be too jealous. For a split second, he considered screwing the bouquet up so that whoever Jack’s dream boy was would think Jack was sloppy, but he couldn’t do that to Jack, so he wrapped the flowers with the utmost care and precision.

 _Act like you’re arranging your own bouquet,_ he thought, trying to be optimistic, but that just hurt more.

When he handed it to Jack upon its completion, he was a tad melancholy to see it go. It was the best damn bouquet he’d ever done, and he was sad to watch it leave with Jack, no doubt to make some boy the happiest in the world.

Jack _and_ amazing flowers. Lucky boy.

Who could want more than that?

~ “Crutchie, you’re moping,” Sarah said, leaning against his counter, elbows resting on the countertop and chin in her hands.

“I am not.”

“You aren’t concentrating. You paired clashing flowers together in a bouquet just now with that woman, and you didn’t say anything.”

“’S what she asked for,” Crutchie mumbled, tracing the wood grain of the countertop with his finger.

“But you didn’t make a face or anything. Usually there’s some reaction. You love flowers too much to disrespect them by _clashing_ them,” Sarah pointed out.

Crutchie shrugged. Clashing colors were the least of his worries right now. He wondered if Jack was on his date yet, if he’d presented the flowers to his dream boy. Maybe they’d already started dinner.

Maybe they’d kissed.

And Crutchie could _not_ be thinking about this right now if he wanted to preserve his sanity for the last –he checked the clock- half hour of work. No thinking about kissing. No thinking about Jack.

And _especially_ no thinking about kissing Jack.

“Hey, if you want to take off early,” Katherine offered from her workspace. “I’ve got it here.”

“I’m not abandoning you,” Crutchie mumbled.

“Well, you aren’t exactly doing us any good by sitting there _moping_ ,” Kath pointed out, and Sarah gave him a knowing look, like _see? I told you._ “Besides, the last thirty minutes are not exactly the busiest. I’ll be fine. I’ve got Sarah if things get insane. Go. Sleep off your sadness.”

“I doubt sleeping will help,” Crutchie sighed, “seeing as once I wake up, the scenario will still be exactly the same as it was before.”

“You’d be surprised what a good night’s sleep can do for you,” Sarah said, giving him a shove towards the door. “Go. We’ve got it. Love you.”

Crutchie attempted about ten more seconds of half-hearted protesting before they insisted, and he left with a final goodbye.

~

“Spot?” Crutchie called, unlocking the apartment door and pushing it open with his good foot. “I’m home.”

“Early,” noted his roommate from the kitchen.

“Aren’t you observant. Yeah, early. Couldn’t think straight, so Kath and Sarah let me go early.” Crutchie hung up his jacket and toed off his shoes at the front door.

“Thinking lovey dovey thoughts about Jack Kelly?”

Alright, so maybe Crutchie had come home every night and whined to Spot about Jack and his infuriating attractiveness, but he didn’t deserve _this_ kind of treatment.

“You can’t prove anything, Conlon. While you were sitting on your ass back here, I was _working-_ ”

“I have the _graveyard shift._ Every. Goddamn. Morning. You don’t get to compare us, ass,” and alright, perhaps that was fair.

Spot’s voice continued. “I just thought you might want to think carefully before you said anything potentially incriminating, seeing as Kelly is standing in our kitchen.”

_What._

“What the hell?” Crutchie yelped, almost tripping over his bad foot in his haste to get to the kitchen. “What do you mean-” and then he stopped dead, because Jack Kelly was standing in the kitchen beside Spot.

Jack Kelly.

Was in their _kitchen._

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

Spot snorted loudly and ducked around Crutchie. “I’m going to Race’s,” he said on his way to the door. “Have fun, you two.”

 _No, don’t leave me!_ Crutchie wanted to yell, but that might be considered rude. So he composed himself and forced himself to meet Jack’s ( _gorgeous_ ) brown eyes.

“Hi,” he said. “Sorry. That was rude of me. Um… what are you doing here?”

“I have an explanation and two gifts,” Jack said. “Which would you like first?”

“Um.” Crutchie racked his brains, trying to think of how this could potentially be harmful to his emotional and mental health. “I like… gifts?”

“Oh, good. That’ll make the explanation easier,” and with that, Jack reached behind him and pulled a bouquet off the counter.

A blue and yellow bouquet.

A bouquet that Crutchie _recognized._

Because he had _made it._

“Jack, what-”

“Just take it, alright? Let me explain.”

So Crutchie shut his mouth, accepted the flowers, and then backed away, watched Jack fidget for a moment before getting comfortable against the counter and inhaling deeply.

“Ever since I walked into that flower shop,” he began, “I’ve been absolutely infatuated with you, Crutchie. Your sunny personality and your freckles and your _dimples,_ oh God, and when you smile…” Jack grinned wistfully. “You light up the entire room with your smile, Crutchie.”

“Um. I-” Crutchie began, but Jack held up a hand.

“Let me finish, okay? So I’m absolutely head-over-heels for you. And I figured that since I was in there for my ex, I could establish that I was definitely _not_ in a relationship and maybe you’d take a hint? You didn’t, by the way,” he added, and Crutchie made some sort of indignant spluttering noise before Jack cut him off again. “So _then,_ I thought, how about I’m just. _Really_ obvious about how much I like you. How about I make a bouquet _with your favorite colors_?”

Crutchie looked down at the bouquet with a small smile. “They are my favorites. How did you know?”

“Spot,” Jack said, and Crutchie frowned in confusion. _Spot?_ As far as he knew, Spot and Jack didn’t know each other.

“He’s in my art class at uni,” Jack explained. “We figured out a few days ago that we had a mutual friend, and we’ve worked forward from there.”

Crutchie nodded slowly, still trying to process it all. “But… what about your dream guy?”

“Crutchie, _there was no dream guy_ ,” Jack said slowly. “ _You_ are the dream guy. This whole time, there hadn’t been any ‘wooing’ of some random guy. It’s been you this whole time.”

Crutchie opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked down at the bouquet, mind still trying to process what was going on. Jack liked him? Crutchie? _Seriously?_

“Give me a second,” he managed, setting the bouquet on the countertop behind him and turning to face Jack. “You… like me.”

“I thought I made that quite clear,” Jack said with a tight smile. As a matter of fact, his entire face looked tight, and it took Crutchie a moment to realize that he was _nervous._ Jack Kelly, Flirt Extraordinaire, was _terrified_ that Crutchie was about to reject him.

That thought brought a grin to Crutchie’s face, because frankly, it was laughable to think that Crutchie could ever turn _Jack_ down.

“So, just as a recap. You like me,” he said, desperately trying to kill his smile.

“It appears so,” Jack replied, still looking very nervous.

“And I like you,” Crutchie said slowly.

Something like relief came flooding onto Jack’s face. “Y-you do?”

“I do,” Crutchie said, in the same slow tone. “I’m slightly concerned that you hadn’t noticed my adoring gazing at you from behind my counter.”

Jack looked down. “I thought you were just being friendly.”

“Just being- sure, Jack. Lovestruck looks and accidental hand touches are _so very_ friendly. I was head over heels for you!” Crutchie let out an incredulous laugh. “I like you _a lot_ , Jack Kelly.”

“Okay,” said Jack carefully. “Alright. Does this-” He took a deep breath. “Does this mean I can kiss you?”

“Oh, _please,_ ” Crutchie said, and in the next instant Jack was crossing the kitchen in two strides. He cupped Crutchie’s face in his hands, and after a moment of hesitation he leaned in and pressed their mouths together.

It was soft, and sweet, and Crutchie could feel all the breath in his lungs leave him in a shaky exhale as he brought the arm that wasn’t holding his crutch to wind around Jack’s neck. Jack’s hands fluttered awkwardly between them for a second before settling on Crutchie’s hips, tugging him closer. The crutch – _that damn crutch_ \- stalled against the tile floor, causing Crutchie to stumble against Jack, and they broke off the kiss for half a second while Crutchie readjusted, setting the crutch on the counter behind him and balancing on his good foot.

Then he gave a breathy laugh, eyes fixed on Jack’s chin because he wasn’t brave enough to look him in the eye, until Jack brought up one hand to tip Crutchie’s chin up. They locked eyes, two different shades of brown meeting, and the little smile that brought the corner of Jack’s gorgeous mouth up was all it took for Crutchie to surge forward and crush their lips together once more.

“Let me get this straight,” Crutchie said, after quite a while of absolutely fantastic, mind-numbing kissing.

“Not even close to straight,” Jack said with a cheesy grin, and Crutchie used the hand that wasn’t clasped around Jack’s neck for support to whack him on the arm.

“Let me make sure of something,” he corrected. “You’ve liked me for a while-”

“Forever,” Jack said earnestly, emphasizing this with a peck on Crutchie’s nose.

“Right,” Crutchie said with a wide smile. “And I’ve liked _you_ since I met you. So couldn’t we have been doing this-” He gestured between them, “for a _really_ long time?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Jack murmured. “ _Shit._ ”

“We’re idiots.” It was part giggle and part exasperated huff, and Jack made a sound of agreement before kissing him again. This one was slower, not as frantic as the other one, full of the knowledge that they both loved doing this and could do it as many times as they wanted.

“Major idiots,” Jack said, once they had pulled apart. “The stupidest of idiots.”

“Art majors,” sighed Crutchie, with a mocking shake of his head. “So eloquent.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’re an English major now?” Jack challenged, eyebrow raised.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Crutchie retorted, in the snootiest tone he could manage, and he was rewarded with a laugh from Jack.

“No kidding,” he said. “I thought you said you were in theater?”

“You would not believe how much the English departments and theater departments overlap,” Crutchie sighed. “Especially concerning Shakespeare. My roommate Spot- he’s majoring in writing, and I’m looking into backstage work.”

“That’s so cool,” whispered Jack, and he sounded like he truly meant it, like he was really genuinely interested in Crutchie’s life. “And you love flowers.”

“I do love flowers,” Crutchie agreed. “Although the flower shop is more of a part time job. I’m trying to find a theater that’s got openings in a stage managing position.”

“Stage managing,” said Jack with a fond smile. “And here I am, majoring in shapes and colors.”

“Well, I’m sure they’re very nicely colored shapes,” said Crutchie reassuringly, and Jack shook his head, laughing.

“You’re too sweet,” he mumbled, and moved his head forward so that their foreheads were pressed together. “So I was wondering… would you like to get dinner maybe?”

“Maybe?” Crutchie asked incredulously. “You think that after all that I’m going to _turn you down?_ ”

“Um.” Jack looked embarrassed. “No?’

“Of _course_ not, you silly boy,” Crutchie said, kissing him quickly on the mouth. “Where were you thinking of going?”

“Anywhere you wanted,” Jack said, sounding immensely relieved ( _please._ As if Crutchie would have _ever_ turned _Jack Kelly_ down). “I think Jake’s is open until eleven?”

“Sounds perfect,” Crutchie said, pulling away from Jack, as much as it pained him to do so. Jack backed up, allowing him to lean back against the counter and catch his balance. “I’ve got to get out of my uniform, but that should only take a minute. Feel free to- um,” he paused. “Make yourself at home, or whatever. Be right back!”

He grabbed his crutch and made his way out of the kitchen into the living room, where he did a double take, because Spot and Race were sitting on the couch, Spot idly scrolling through the Netflix queue on the television.

Race looked up when Crutchie appeared in the doorway. “About _time_ , _Gruccia_ ,” he complained. “You two lovebirds were taking for _ever_ in there, and I was hungry.”

“He’s been whining for ten minutes,” Spot muttered, not taking his eyes off the TV. “It’s very annoying.”

“Fuck you, Conlon.”

“Right back at you, asshole.”

“Okay,” interrupted Crutchie, because he didn’t have time for Race and Spot and their… situation. The situation where they flirted back and forth and it was painfully clear that they both liked each other but they were too stubborn and proud to do shit about it. “Alright. How long have you two been here?” He hadn’t even heard them come in.

“Twenty minutes?” Race asked. “Maybe?” When Spot neither agreed with nor disputed this fact, he punched his friend’s arm. “Hey _culo,_ how long have we been here?”

“Hell if I know. Twenty minutes? Twenty-five?” Spot looked away from the television to aim his punch correctly, a well-placed sock to Race’s arm that made him yelp indignantly.

“ _Asshole,_ ” he hissed, rubbing his sore arm.

 _Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five._ How long had Crutchie and Jack been talking?

“Anyways,” he said quickly, because Spot and Race were glaring daggers at each other and there was definitely a fight brewing. “I’m going to go change, and then Jack and I are going out.”

Race whistled loudly and Spot said, “O _ooh,_ Crutchie’s got a _date_.”

“Yes. So, I’m leaving. Don’t burn the house down. Be civil to each other. Love you.”

“Hey, Crutchie,” Spot called, just as Crutchie was turning to leave. “Does he make you happy?”

“What?”

“Kelly. Does he make you happy? Are you happy with him?”

Crutchie didn’t have to think about it very hard. “Yes,” he said confidently. “I am, Spot.”

“Good. Then have fun. And remind him that if he breaks your heart, I’ll slit his throat.”

“And I’ll hide the body,” Race volunteered.

Crutchie began to make his way across the living room to his bedroom, but he couldn’t hide his smile, no matter how much he tried. The threat was most likely empty (or not… with Spot and Race it was sometimes hard to tell), but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.

He’d started out making Screw You Bouquets and pining from behind the flower shop counter for a boy he could never have. And now he was going out with him. After kissing him. For something like twenty minutes.

 _Life is good,_ he thought to himself, closing his bedroom door behind him, even as he heard Spot and Race begin shouting at each other from the other room. _Life is pretty good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed that! it was super fun to write 
> 
> ALRIGHT LISTEN UP I HATE FLOWERS so I suppose this is where I insert that lil notice that says something like
> 
> The Views And Opinions Expressed In This Fic Are Not In Any Way The Author's Own Opinions And Views, i.e Crutchie Adoring Flowers And Byrd Hating Them With Every Fiber Of Their Being
> 
> Thank You


	26. Grocery store- sprace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You run in looking really panicked and you ask for 6 gallons of milk why” sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to have a theme
> 
> byrd gets back and all they write about is fics set in various civilian stores
> 
> flowershops, grocery stores
> 
> anyways this one has been in my drafts for over six months and i'm sick of looking at it so. here. 
> 
> enjoy.
> 
> here goes nothing.
> 
> -byrd

It was hot out.

Too hot for words, the kind of heat that stayed with you no matter what you did to try and evade it. The sort of stickiness that clung to your back and neck and forehead and made you feel disgusting.

Spot _hated_ the heat and the sticky feeling of overall grubbiness it brought.

No matter how many fans they turned on in the run-down grocery store that he worked at, it just wouldn’t lessen the intense heat. As a result, his fellow employees and he were slumped in various positions against the wall, savoring the minimal relief from the tiny little box fan that Mush (bless him) had brought from home.

Perhaps it was a good thing that the remainder of the city was _indoors,_ like _sensible_ goddamn people, and that the store was deserted and had been for the past hour or so, because neither Spot nor any of his friends felt like _moving,_ much less _actually getting up_ to help a customer. Moving required _effort._ Effort caused sweat. And they didn’t need any more of that today.

“Don’t we have an AC unit in this damn store?” Romeo asked, leaning his head back against the wall, the excessive heat making him (as well as the rest of them) drowsy.

“Well, whether we _have one_ and whether it actually a functioning thing are two different points,” Mush pointed out. “We’ve got one, but…”

“But,” Spot sighed tiredly. “It’s a piece of shit that hasn’t worked since the Stone Ages.”

They all got quiet for a moment, listening to the pathetic puttering of the very unit in question.

“Can we close up shop now?” Romeo whined, his head lolling sideways to rest on Specs’ shoulder.

“We can’t,” said Mush, although his loyalty to his job and his desire to get home to _proper air conditioning_ were clearly waging war in his head. “Not until six.”

“What time is it now?” asked Romeo, signing the words out as he said them so that Specs could understand him, then tapping on Specs’ watch.

Specs held up three fingers, and they all groaned.

“Three more hours of this?” Spot moaned, letting his head fall back and hit the brick wall behind him. “Just kill me now, why don’t you?”

“It’ll be fine,” said Mush, ever the optimist, although he sounded as though he was having doubts himself. “It’s only three hours, right?”

Spot scoffed. “ _Only three hours._ Do you realize how much shit I could get done in three hours instead of sitting here like some useless-”

“Got it, you’re pissed. We _got_ it,” Romeo butted in before Spot could finish. “That’s not the point. Do we _really_ think anyone in their right mind would run errands today?”

“Anyone _in their right mind_ is sitting at home, enjoying air conditioning that _doesn’t_ suck,” Spot grumbled.

Specs signed something to Romeo, too fast for anyone else to catch, and Romeo snickered.

“At least none of us have ever had any delusions about being in our right minds,” he translated, and Mush grinned.

“Exactly,” he said. “See, we’ve just got to have a good attitu- dear _God in heaven_ does this fan have a higher setting than _snail pace?_ ”

“Aw, baby,” crooned Spot, trying to hide his grin. “Heat getting to you?”

“Go burn in hell, Conlon.”

“I’m already here, in what the locals call Fresh & Local Food, but we all know is really hell on earth, burning slowly to a crisp from this _goddamn heat wave,_ ” Spot snapped back.

“Boys,” said Romeo, sounding utterly exhausted. “Play nice, now.”

Specs patted him on the head like, _there, there._

They sat in relative silence for another few minutes before they all heard the unmistakable sound of the sliding glass doors lazily opening.

“You’re effing kidding me,” Spot said in disbelief. “A customer? _Now?_ ” He raised his voice. “Go home, we’re closed, asshole.”

“Spot!” yelped Mush, whacking him on the arm. “No! We aren’t closed! Please come in and look around.” He whirled around to face Spot. “Why did you do that? What if it’s some elderly person, looking for help?”

“Then I would say it’s amazing they didn’t die on the way over here from heatstroke,” Spot grumbled.

“You’re an asshole,” Mush informed him.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

From their place on the ground, the little group couldn’t see the doors, but someone was definitely walking into the store. Quiet footsteps, followed by a, “Hello?”

Mush poked Spot. “Your turn. Go help him.”

“Me? Why me?” Spot demanded.

“Because you were an ass, and you’d better thank your lucky stars that that guy didn’t _hear you_ when you insulted him,” Mush hissed.

“So I called him an asshole for disrupting our peace and quiet,” Spot growled. “Big effing deal. I’m sorry, okay?”

“No, that’s not good enough. Get up.”

“Go die in a hole, Meyers.”

“Maybe some other time. Go. Now.”

Spot wanted to argue, but the way Mush was glaring at him made it very clear that it wasn’t up for debate. With a big, dramatic sigh, he pushed off the wall and stretched, his back making a very impressive noise from having been hunched against the wall for so long. His shirt was sticking to him, and he made one, futile, effort to air it out before coming to the conclusion that whoever was in the store right now would be in just as bad a state.

He made his way around the corner, where a dark-haired guy about his age was standing in the doorway. Well, not really. He was leaning against the doorframe, face flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly, and

_Oh, no._

He was _hot._ Dark eyes scanned Spot before settling on his eyes, and they were so intense that Spot almost took a step back. The guy’s hair was messy and plastered to his forehead, which shouldn’t have been attractive, and yet… somehow it was. His shirt was _white,_ heaven help Spot, which of course meant that because it was eight million degrees outside and he looked like he’d run all the way here ( _why the hell,_ thought Spot, _would anyone intentionally put themselves through such torture_ ), his shirt was soaking wet and sticking to his chest and _oh no he had abs._ Abs that were beautiful and sculpted and were currently heaving with the effort it took to get breath in this heat.

Spot tore his gaze from the guy’s stomach because _creepy,_ and instead fixated his gaze on the guy’s eyes.

“Hi,” he said, only it came out as a choked warble. He cleared his throat. “Hi,” he tried again.

“Hello,” the boy gasped. “Are you…” He inhaled deeply. “Are you open?”

“I don’t think so, but my coworker seems to think we are,” muttered Spot. “Come on in. Although it’s not much better in here, temperature-wise.”

“Fine by me. At least we’re out of the sun in here,” the guy said, and then flashed Spot a grin that should _not_ have made him go weak in the knees like that.

Spot was a rational, reasonable adult. He wasn’t _crushing_ on a guy he’d just met.

 _A very hot guy,_ his mind unhelpfully supplied.

 _Shut up,_ he told it.

“So what do you need?” Spot asked, as they made their way into the store, which, as Spot had warned, was no cooler than the air outside. If anything, it was even stuffier, all that hot air in a contained space.

“Milk,” the guy promptly responded.

“Milk?”

“Milk. Six gallons of milk.”

“ _Six gallons of-_ why the hell do you need _six?_ ”

“Because,” and he was _definitely_ avoiding the question.

“Hold on.” Spot stopped and turned around to face the guy, just before they would turn the corner and be within view of his friends against the wall. “You’re telling me you _ran all the way here-_ ”

“I didn’t run!” A look from Spot made him pause. “I mean… I didn’t run the _whole_ way here.”

“Mmhmm,” Spot said, putting as much skepticism as he could into the hum.

“Okay, so I ran here. So what?”

“Why the hell would you run all the way here, when it’s one hundred and twenty-shit degrees outside, for _milk?_ And not just milk, but _six gallons?”_

The guy may have blushed, although it was hard to tell since he was already bright red from his run ( _run!_ ) over here. “Aren’t you, like, not supposed to question me? Customer privacy, and all that?”

“I’ve never been much good at my job,” Spot admitted. “Ask anyone. So I’ll ask again, _why-_ ”

“Because,” said the guy, a twinkle in those dark eyes. “Reasons.”

Then he turned the corner into the store, and Spot used a precious three seconds to compose himself after following him because hot _damn._

“Ayy!” Romeo called from his spot against the wall. “Race!”

“Hey, Romeo,” the guy (apparently Race) said with an easy grin. “How are you?”

“Right now?” Romeo snorted. “I’m alive, dude. That’s all I can say for sure.”

“Amen to that,” Race agreed, then turned back to Spot. “You didn’t tell me you worked with the greatest person ever.”

“I didn’t think you knew him,” Spot said, watching the two of them, trying to figure out how Romeo knew Race and Spot didn’t.

“Greatest _people_ ever,” Mush spoke up, and Race laughed, walking over to give him a high-five. “He works with the greatest _people_ ever, and he’d damn well not forget it.”

Spot frowned. “I’m obviously missing something. How do you all know each other?”

Romeo, Race, and Mush exchanged glances, then said in unison, “The paper route.”

“In, like, the eighth or ninth grade, when we were all poor bastards-” Mush began.

“Well, not all of us,” put in Romeo.

“Correct,” amended Mush. “When Romeo and I were poor bastards and our rich friend here was looking for some extra money, we all did paper routes together, and since we’re the _single greatest people ever,_ Race here took a liking to us. We’ve been friends ever since.”

“Ever since then?” Spot asked. “I met you two in the fifth grade. How come I’ve never even heard Race’s name before?”

“Race here goes to some stuffy pretentious private college in upstate New York,” said Mush in a nasally voice, and Race rolled his eyes. “But he’s come back down to live in this shithole with us for the summer.”

Spot squinted, because, now that he thought about it, this story _did_ sound familiar. “Wait… You’re Tony,” he said, and Race (Tony?) nodded.

“That would be me,” he said. “I go by Race here. They call me Tony at school. Or-” and here he pitched his voice up an octave, “- _Mister Antonio_.”

Spot snickered. “Sounds like a great place.”

“Oh, it sucks,” said Race. “But you know.” He shrugged.

“What did you need?” Mush asked.

Race tilted his head, then seemed to understand the question. “Oh. I just need some milk.”

He didn’t say how much milk, didn’t reveal the absurd amount of milk he needed, and Spot wondered why.

But Spot wasn’t about to out him, so he just nodded in agreement.

“I can show you-” began Mush, but Romeo jabbed an elbow into his side.

“Hey!” Mush cried, but Romeo just plastered a shit-eating grin on his face and reminded him that “ _Spot_ knows where the milk is, don’t you, Spot?”

Spot frowned, because he didn’t like that smile, and he didn’t want to be a part of anything Romeo was planning. “…Yes. I do.”

“See?” Romeo asked Mush pointedly. “Spot can show him. Stay here and let them go.”

“I don’t want to be involved in any of your schemes, you demented child,” Mush muttered, but he stayed on the ground.

Spot glared at Romeo a bit more, trying to decipher the meaning behind his expression, but Romeo’s face was unreadable.

“A-alright,” he relented. “C’mon, Race.”

He led the way through the bread aisle to the back fridge, where rows and rows of refrigerators stood tall, full of cheese and yogurt and meat and, yes, milk.

“What brand?” Spot asked, before coming to the conclusion that Race could very well pick out his own milk, and that there was really no reason for Spot to be here anymore.

As if reading his mind, Race nodded. “I can- I mean, I’ve got it from here. Thanks.”

He reached for the fridge door, but before his fingertips had even touched the door handle, everything went dead silent. The hum of the fridges stopped. The weak, flickering lights went out, along with the slight buzz that accompanied them.

Across the store, someone shrieked. Maybe Romeo.

“Goddammit,” muttered Spot. “God _dammit._ Was that the power?”

A muffled swear word from where his friends were, and then, “Dammit!”

“That was the power,” Spot confirmed. Then he noticed Race’s hand, which had dropped at the sudden power outage but was now hovering back over the refrigerator door handle, and yelped, “No!”

Race flinched and withdrew his hand once more. “What?”

“Don’t open the fridge, idiot! Don’t you know anything?”

Race’s face was dangerously blank. “What?”

Spot rolled his eyes. “When the power goes out, you aren’t supposed to open the fridge, because the cold air will be let out and the food will rot. Have you never had your electricity go out before?”

“Apparently not,” Race remarked. “So now I can’t get my milk.”

“That would be correct. MUSH!” Spot yelled.

“WHAT?”

“CAN YOU- screw this. COME HERE!”

Mush appeared at the end of the bread aisle. “What, asshole?”

“Can you get the generator to work before all our food goes bad?” Spot didn’t really care about the food; he just wanted to ensure that they _didn’t_ have any reason for Wiesel to fire them all.

“That old piece of shit hasn’t worked since our boss was a kid.”

“Wiesel? So, not since the time of the dinosaurs.”

Mush laughed, then got serious. “No, but it really will not cooperate.”

“So our food rots,” said Spot.

“Correct,” sighed Mush.

“Goddammit, I wanted my milk,” Race huffed.

Spot glared at him. “Don’t be a whiny baby. We have worse problems than Your Highness not getting his way.”

“I ran all the way here for nothing,” he groaned.

“So stay a while,” snapped Spot, whose patience was gone, with Race and his attitude, with the faulty power and crappy generator, with the heat, with the world in general, really. “Just don’t gripe about it while you’re here.”

“Ex _cuse_ you,” began Race, looking offended. “ _I_ can gripe all I want. _My_ house has an AC unit that actually _works,_ and I am _missing it._ ”

“Adopt me,” Mush begged. “ _Please._ My house hasn’t had AC for _days._ ”

“Sucks to suck, _Michael._ Now we’re _both_ air-conditioning-deprived.”

“Focus,” Spot snapped, running a hand through his sweaty hair as he tried to assess the situation. “Okay. So. We can’t open the fridges for fear of food rotting. We can’t get the generator to work, which is the only way to keep the food from rotting. If all this food rots, you’d better believe we’ve _all_ lost our jobs for the summer. Any ideas?”

“Get new jobs,” Race volunteered.

“Yes, because so many places are looking for inexperienced college students to work for them,” sighed Mush. “Wiesel was kind of a last-resort kind of thing for all of us.”

“That sucks,” said Race, voicing all of their thoughts out loud.

“Any more ideas?” Mush asked.

“Move to Alaska,” said Spot promptly.

Mush rolled his eyes. “And your reasoning behind this brilliant plan is…”

“Oh, there’s no reasoning,” Spot said, and Race snickered. “It’s just a hell of a lot cooler there than it is _here_ , so let’s all move to Alaska.”

“Yeah, that’ll work. Right up until we reveal that we’re dirt-poor college students with no money for plane tickets and get kicked out of the airport,” Mush snapped.

“That’s even assuming you make it to the airport,” Race pointed out. “If you’ve got exactly twelve cents to your name, how are you expecting to pay for a cab _to_ the airport?”

“Excuse you, I have _fifteen_ cents to my name,” Spot argued, if only to relish in the grin that Race shot him.

“You guys are being real mature,” Mush said with a sigh. “Do you have any _good_ ideas?”

Spot turned his attention to the fridges, where condensation was starting to form on the doors. “Define _good idea,_ ” he said.

“Nothing that comes from your brain, that’s for sure,” Mush said.

“You could always try to get the power back on,” tried Race.

Mush shook his head. “Unless you happen to know any electrical teams who can get over here in-” He glanced at the fridges, too, “-Less than half an hour.”

“Sorry, man. Fresh out of electrical teams,” Race said.

They were silent for a moment, and then Spot said, “So if we don’t open the fridge, theoretically, the food will retain its coldness and _not_ rot, right?”

“Theoretically,” echoed Mush, “although eventually, it would rot anyways if the power doesn’t cut back on.”

“Don’t you guys have some sort of emergency procedure for this kind of thing?” Race asked. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be prepared for disasters?”

“I suppose this qualifies as a disaster,” Spot snorted. “But no. With Wiesel, he just kind of tossed Mush the keys and said _good luck,_ then walked out.”

“No, for real.” That was Romeo, who Spot was fairly certain hadn't been there two seconds ago. “That’s _actually_ what Wiesel did.”

Mush’s face took on a solemn expression. “It was terrifying. All I knew how to do was work the cash register.”

“Which is more than the rest of us could say,” put in Romeo. Spot nodded in agreement.

“I didn’t know _shit_ about running a store,” Mush added. “Thankfully, we aren’t exactly the most popular place in town.”

Race glanced around at the run-down old place, and Spot could see him processing the out-of-date cash registers, the stains on the walls, the old, bug-filled lights that, had they been on, would have been flickering erratically.

“You can say that again,” Race snorted, and Romeo smacked his arm with an offended “ _Rude_.”

“So how big of a deal would it be,” Race began, and it was Mush’s turn to hit him.

“We aren’t purposefully losing our jobs just because they suck,” he snapped.

Race put his hands up defensively. “Does it pay well? I don’t understand your connection to this shitty store.”

“Our _connection_ ,” Spot said with a disbelieving laugh, “is that nobody in their right damn minds would hire _us._ Wiesel isn't exactly _in_ his right mind, so we’re good as long as we don’t screw this up too badly.”

“I dunno,” Romeo said, brushing a sweaty strand of hair off his forehead. “This kind of qualifies as _screwing this up.”_

“Where’d you leave your boyfriend?” Spot asked Romeo. “Did he die of heatstroke? Do I need to plan a funeral?”

“You’re so funny. He’s back in the back room, seeing if he can get the power back on.”

Race cocked his head. “Is he some sort of electrical genius? Because if we have one of those, we don’t _need_ an electrical team to come fix the power.”

Romeo shrugged. “He’s no wizard, but he’s pretty damn good. If anyone can get the power back on, I think it would be him.”

“God _bless,_ ” sighed Spot, who wasn’t ready to die in a puddle of his own sweat. “Assuming he’s as good at this as you claim, how much time before it cuts back on?”

Romeo opened his mouth, then closed it. “I actually have no idea. Should I-”

“Go ask the man? _Yes!_ ” cried Spot, and Race nodded vigorously.

Romeo nodded and spun, jogging back down the aisle, and after what appeared to be a moment’s hesitation, Mush pointed in the general direction of the back room and wordlessly ran after Romeo.

Leaving Spot and Race alone, standing in the aisle and watching the condensation drip down the fridge doors.

“So…” Spot trailed off, looking at the fridges, the floor, the ceiling. Anywhere, really, but Race in all his attractiveness, because Spot’s poker face _stunk_ and more than likely, he’d be caught staring. “Why exactly do you need _six gallons_ of milk?”

“Customer confidentiality,” repeated Race.

“Is that just your way of saying _none of your business, piss off?_ ” Spot asked with a small smile.

“Something like that,” Race agreed.

Silence. Spot felt sweat drip down his neck and wished, hoped, prayed to whoever was listening that Specs got the power back on. Not that the store was any cooler with the shitty fans operating, but it would be nice to _not_ lose his job.

After another minute, Spot thought that he was about to lose his mind, because Race was _right there_ in all his attractive glory and _he_ _could not deal with this right now._

“I’m going to go… um.” He faltered when Race turned those crazy dark eyes towards him, but regained his voice and tried again. “Into the back. I’m going to go see if they’ve managed to get anything working yet.”

Race raised an eyebrow. “Can I come too?”

“I don’t give a shit what you do.”

“I mean, it’s not like I’m leaving until I get my milk, or at least confirmation that I’m not getting any.”

“With that attitude, I’ll make sure you never get your damn milk,” Spot snapped, and ducked out of the aisle and made his way back to the back room, not even checking to see if Race was following him.

“How’s it going?” he greeted Romeo in the back room, which had no windows and even on good days was stuffy. In this heat wave it was unbearable.

“It’s not,” sighed Romeo. “The power box isn’t something Specs has ever seen before. He’s having a hard time figuring it out.”

“We’re going to lose our jobs,” Mush groaned, putting his back against the wall and sliding down it into a sitting position.

“It was nice working with you all,” Romeo said in agreement, using his forearm to wipe off his sweaty forehead. “I’m going to have to go back to delivering papers.”

“Hey, the paper route wasn’t _that_ bad,” Race said, coming up behind Spot in the doorway.

“In case you were perhaps not aware,” Romeo said dryly, “we are currently in the middle of one of the worst heat waves this part of New York has ever seen, and I’ll be damned if I’ve got to walk around in that heat to deliver bad news to rich assholes for, like, a dollar an hour.”

A slamming noise brought all their attention to Specs, who was fiddling with the power box. He whacked the side of the box again, and a slight humming emitted from the box. It grew louder and louder, and as they all watched, awe-struck, the lights in the break room flickered weakly before turning on.

“That’s not possible,” Mush muttered, as Specs turned back towards them with an ear-to-ear grin.

“Who gives a flying shit if it’s _possible,_ Specs just fucking _did it_ ,” Spot said with an incredulous laugh, watching the now-working lights in astonishment.

“ _How-_ ” Race began, but apparently thought better of whatever he was going to say and closed his mouth.

Romeo laughed and signed something to Specs, much too fast for Spot to understand. Specs pulled him into a short kiss, and when they pulled apart Specs signed something right back. They began a silent conversation, completely ignoring the other three. Being friends with Romeo and Specs meant that this happened depressingly often, so Spot was quick to change the subject.

“Should we go check on the food?”

Mush snapped his fingers at him. “Shit. Yes. Come on.”

Race led the way out of the backroom and into the store, where, Spot was relieved to see, the fridges seemed to have cut back on.

“Looks good to me,” Mush observed. “Are we going to get to keep our jobs?”

“Oh, thank God,” Spot breathed, pressing a hand to the glass of one fridge to confirm that it was, indeed, considerably cooler. “Specs did a good job.”

“Specs did an _amazing_ job,” Race agreed. “Can I have my milk now?”

Spot rolled his eyes. “Yes, pissy baby, you can have your damn milk now. Mush, will you go see if the registers are back online? We’ve got to check out six gallons of milk.”

Mush, bless his heart, didn’t ask questions, although Race let out an indignant splutter at Spot’s complete outing his weird request. As Mush vanished back down the aisle, he turned to Spot. “There’s no need to be an _asshole_.”

“He would have figured it out eventually,” said Spot nonchalantly, “when you went to his register with aforementioned _six gallons of milk,_ which, by the way, you still haven’t told me why you need them.”

Race shrugged, his easy-going attitude back. “It’s a secret.”

“Are you planning on carrying all six cartons back to your house? They’ll spoil in a second in this heat,” Spot pointed out.

“Oh, well,” Race said breezily, shrugging. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

“Seriously. Let me-” _What the hell are you doing?_ “Let me at least drive you home.”

“Aw, how sweet,” Race said with a sneer. “But I’m not the type to willingly enter situations where I am likely to get _murdered_ and then, like, buried in a remote field somewhere.”

“Don’t be stupid. Let me drive you home.” Spot wasn’t really all that sure why he was suddenly determined to do something for this asshole, but something in his mind kept pressing, refusing to drop the issue. “Seriously. It’s no problem.”

“Tell you what,” Race said, after a moment’s consideration. He stepped closer to Spot, and Spot instinctively took a step back, bumping into the fridge doors as he did so.

“You stay here and do your job, like you’re being paid to do,” Race continued, ignoring the _“Bullshit,_ ” that was Spot’s reply, “and when you’re off work, you tell me.”

A marker had suddenly materialized in Race’s hand, and he grabbed Spot’s wrist to write on the inside of his forearm in bright red ink. “Give me a call and ensure that I haven’t passed out from heat exhaustion in a ditch somewhere.”

“As if I care,” Spot snorted, trying to ignore the hammering in his chest as a result of the tickling of the marker tip on his skin as a phone number appeared on his arm and _Race holding his hand._

_Wrist. Whatever._

Race shrugged again, as if it didn’t really matter to him either way, and then the lid was back on the marker and he was slipping it back in his pocket. “Just in case, then. Use the number. Don’t use the number. I don’t give a shit either way. Just get out of the way. You’re in front of the milk.”

Spot turned and saw that, yes indeed, he was standing in front of the shelves full of milk, and he hurriedly stepped aside, allowing Race to access his long-awaited (and bitched about) milk.

He wasn’t sure how, but somehow, in a superhuman display of agility, Race managed to fit all six cartons in his arms, creating a balancing stack that wobbled precariously but remarkably did not fall. He made it all the way to the register where Mush was booting up the system with Spot trailing behind, partially to catch a milk carton should one fall, partially to offer criticism and insults, and partially so that he could remain well behind Race and check out the view that was his back and ass through the soaked material of his clothes (hey, he was only human, and Race was built like a _rock_ ).

Once the milk was all checked out and paid for with a very fancy-looking credit card that Race produced out of his pocket, Spot stuck the six cartons into three bags and handed them to Race, fully expecting an insult or sneer as Race took the bags.

Instead, Race leaned in close – _much too close_ \- and whispered, “Call me, babe. You’ve got my number.”

Then he started towards the doors, bags in hand and shit-eating grin plastered onto his face, and Spot was the one left indignantly spluttering for something to say this time. Meanwhile, Mush was cracking up behind the register, and no amount of glaring on Spot’s part lessened the laughter. Then again, he wasn’t sure how intimidating he looked when his cheeks were the color of cherries.

“Someone’s got a _cru-ush_ ,” Romeo sang from the doorway of the back room, where (if his and Specs’ appearances and Specs’ expression were anything to go by), they had _definitely_ just been making out.

“No I don’t,” Spot muttered. “Shut up.”

“Spotty’s got a crush on _Race-track_!” cackled Mush, and Spot made a mental note to kill him later.

“No I don’t,” he said again, but his flaming cheeks were probably (certainly) giving him away.

Even Specs was laughing at him, silently of course, but the sentiment was still received, and that just _wasn’t fair._

“I hate you all,” Spot snapped, turning away and trying to get his blush under control.

“Sure you do,” Romeo said around another fit of laughter. “Especially _Race._ ”

Spot refused to grace that with a response, instead remaining turned around and trying to compose himself so that he wouldn’t turn back to his friends with an idiotic grin on his face.

And if he took the time while turned away from them all to check his arm and perhaps memorize the number in red ink there, well then, that was no one’s business but his own, now was it?

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as with the flower fic, I am compelled to write that I do not agree with my characters once more, as byrd is a lactose intolerant bean and cannot have milk so. eat your heart out, race
> 
> drink your heart out
> 
> whatever
> 
> what the heck did he need 6 gallons of milk for


	27. Rent AU 3- Take Me Or Leave Me (sprace)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as requested... part three to the rent au- take me or leave me with sprace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyyyy
> 
> guess who's back with part 3 to an au I thought wouldn't make it past 1??? 
> 
> crazy this is all crazy
> 
> this doesn't exactly match up with my other aus... in those, I had sprace as roger and mimi and the newsbians as maureen and joanne... in this one, it's all switched up. 
> 
> so. 
> 
> enjoy.
> 
> the next fic is most likely going to be newsbians-centered, which I have. never done before. so. this should be fun
> 
> here goes nothing

Davey surveyed the empty lot around him with a sigh, then took out his camera. This was such a habit by now that his fingers moved almost without thinking, winding up the camera and pointing it at himself.

“Valentine’s Day,” he began, then turned the camera around. “Pan around the empty lot. Jack is at Crutchie’s, where he’s been for the past two months now.”

Jack almost never came home anymore, and when he did it was for short bursts of time, usually just to crash on the couch for a few hours or grab a change of clothes. Davey knew he was worried about Crutchie, who was struggling with his own problems, but Jack didn’t look so good when he did come home- pale, with bags under his eyes.

“Although,” Davey said thoughtfully, “he keeps talking about selling his guitar and heading out of town…” _He’s probably not serious,_ he tried to reassure himself.

_He’d better not be serious._

“He’s still jealous of Oscar,” sighed Davey, because it was the truth, no matter how much Jack denied it. “God knows where Specs and Romeo are… could be that new shantytown near the river, or a suite at the Plaza _._ ”

It always depended with Romeo. They picked up odd jobs around the city that included but wasn’t limited to murdering dogs and drumming for change. Sometimes they had cash to blow, and Romeo was a live-in-the-moment type person who would absolutely rent out a penthouse (hell, they would rent out the entire hotel building) if given the opportunity.

“Spot and Race are in there… rehearsing,” Davey said carefully, and in the background, he heard shouting.

“I said _once more from the top!_ ” yelled Spot.

“ _I said no!”_ Race shrieked back.

Davey rolled his eyes, then composed himself and looked into the camera. “That is, if they’re speaking this week,” he said drily. “And as for me? I’m just. Here.” He glanced around. “Nowhere,” he sighed, and turned the camera off. “That was dramatic,” he murmured, and went to go find out what Spot and Race were yelling about.

Race was standing onstage, arms crossed and glare on his face. Spot was sitting on the edge of the stage beside him, tinkering with the soundboard.

“What now?” Davey asked Jack, sliding in beside him in the back of the lot. Crutchie looked up and smiled at him, and Specs reached over for a fistbump while Romeo fluttered their fingers in a little wave.

“Just… the power couple. Being themselves,” Jack said.

“Do I need to plan a funeral?”

Crutchie snorted loudly, but no one else responded, which was answer enough. This fight, whatever it was, wasn’t good. And it wasn’t going to end well.

“Your _line,_ ” snapped Spot, “is ‘Cyberarts and its corporate sponsor, Gregg Communications, wish to mitigate the Christmas Eve riot.’ What _exactly_ is so difficult about that?”

“It just doesn’t…” Race gestured vaguely with his hands. “ _Roll off the tongue._ I like my version.”

Spot put the soundboard down and turned to squint up at his boyfriend. “You. _Dressed as a groundhog._ To protest the… groundbreaking.”

“It’s a _metaphor,_ Spot!”

Spot scoffed. “Less than brilliant.”

Race made a frustrated noise. “Alright, you know what, Mr. Ivy League? That’s it!”

Spot blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Race stabbed a finger in his face. “Ever since New Year’s, I haven’t said boo. I’ve been _perfect._ I let you direct! I didn’t pierce my tongue because it grossed you out!”

Spot started to say something, but another threatening jab of Race’s finger shut him up.

Race went on. “I didn’t stay and dance at the Clip Club that one night because _you_ wanted to go home!”

“ _I wanted-_ Race, you were _flirting_ with that person in rubber!” Spot cried.

There was a long pause, and then Race huffed loudly.

“That’s what this is about?” he asked in an incredulous tone. “There will always be _people in rubber_ flirting with me, give me a _break_ , Spot.”

Beside Jack, Crutchie sucked in a breath. “Damn.”

Spot huffed and turned back around so that his back was to his boyfriend, but Race wasn’t done.

“Every single day when I walk down the street, I hear people calling me _baby-_ it’s so sweet,” Race said with a grin, then seemed to compose himself. “I can’t help it, babe. Ever since… ever since puberty, _everyone_ stares at me. Boys, girls, I can’t help it, baby.”

Spot snorted loudly, and Race grinned shamelessly at him.

“So be _kind,”_ he reprimanded, “and don’t lose your mind! Just remember,” and here Race approached Spot, who still had his back to him. Race leaned down, draping himself over Spot’s shoulders. “I’m _your_ baby.”

Then he stood, backing up and causing Spot to turn back around to watch him. “Take me for what I am,” Race laughed, spreading his arms and gesturing at the stage, their surroundings. “Who I was meant to be!”

Spot opened his mouth, but Race shushed him. “And if you give a damn, then you’ll take me, baby, or leave me.” He began to come towards Spot. “It’s like a… a tiger in a cage. It can never see the sun, but _me?_ ” Race laughed, throwing his head back as he did so, and Davey didn’t miss the way Spot’s eyes followed the curve of Race’s neck. “This diva,” and here Race pointed to his own chest, “needs his stage! C’mon, baby, let’s have _fun._ ”

“Go away,” Spot grumbled. He stood, starting to walk towards the stage steps, but Race intercepted him, standing in his way, and grinned.

“You’re the one I choose,” he said gleefully. “Do you realize that folks would _kill_ to fill your shoes? Admit it- you love the limelight too, now, baby.”

Spot rolled his eyes and tried to duck around Race, but Race blocked him again. “So be mine, Spot, and don’t waste my time by crying,” Race screwed up his face and pitched his voice up three octaves, “ _Oh honey-bear, are you still mi-ine?_ ”

“I do _not_ sound like-”

“Take me for what I am!” Race interrupted, throwing his arms out wide. “Who I was _meant to be_ , and if you give a damn, you’ll take me, baby.” He tilted his head, considering. “Or leave me. Because _no way_ can I be what I’m not, but hey.” He looped his arms around Spot’s neck and pulled his boyfriend closer, pressing their bodies together and bringing their faces (especially their lips) impossibly close.

“Don’t you want your boy _hot?_ ” he whispered against Spot’s lips, and Spot jerked backwards instinctively, a dirty look on his face, causing Race to cackle loudly.

“Don’t fight, don’t… _lose your head_ ,” Race said, twirling a finger around his head in the international symbol for _absolutely batshit crazy._ “Cause every night… who’s in your bed?”

“Shut up.” Spot’s face was the color of a cherry.

“Who?” Race challenged. “Who’s in your bed?”

“Shut _up!_ ”

“Kiss, Pookie,” Race said, making a pouty face and leaning in.

Spot didn’t accept the kiss. “That _won’t work,_ Race. I look before I leap.” He wrestled his way out of Race’s arms and composed himself. “I love… _margins._ And _discipline._ For hell’s sake, I make lists in my _sleep_ , baby.”

Race made a nasty face at him, and Spot opened his arms in challenge. “What’s my sin?” he demanded. “Never quit, I follow through. I hate the mess- and yet somehow, I love you.”

“Ass,” Race snapped, flipping him off.

“So _what to do_ with you,” Spot mused, “my impromptu baby?” He ignored Race as he held up his other hand’s middle finger, too. “Be wise, Race, cause me? I _satisfy._ ”

Spot made a dirty hand gesture and Race turned scarlet, sputtering out some sort of half-hearted argument.

“Should we split this up?” Specs asked, “or…?”

“Nah, let them hash it out,” Jack replied. “This has been coming for a while.”

“You’ve got a prize, Race,” Spot said, and there was an undertone of hurt in his voice. “Don’t _compromise_ , because you’re a lucky fucking guy. So take _me_ for what I am!”

“What, a control freak?” scoffed Race.

Spot ignored him. “Who _I_ was meant to be, ass.”

“A snob,” mused Race, “yet over-attentive.”

“And if you give a _damn_ ,” Spot snapped, emphasizing the _damn_ with a smack on Race’s arm.

“A lovable, droll _geek!_ ” cried Race, rubbing his sore arm.

“Take me, baby,” Spot said with a smirk. “Or leave me.”

“And anal retentive,” Race grumbled.

There was a pause, in which something seemed to pass between them, a fragile connection that almost immediately snapped.

“That’s _it!_ ” they both shouted as one.

“The straw that breaks my back,” Spot hissed.

“I _quit!”_ Race shrieked.

“Unless you take me back?” Spot would have sounded hopeful if his tone wasn’t so mean and… _Spot-_ ish.

“ _Men_ ,” Race scoffed. “What is it about them?”

Spot made as if to smack him, then drew his hand back at the last second. “Can’t live with them.”

“Or without them.” Race sounded like he greatly regretted this fact. “Take me, Spot, for what _I am_ , and what I was meant to be!”

“If you give a damn,” Spot said, and it was a half-formed warning in his mouth. “You’d better take me or leave me, Race.”

“Take me baby,” Race said, turning it into a whine towards the end and greatly enjoying the color that Spot’s ears turned. “Or leave me…”

“Guess I’m leaving,” Spot said, turning away to hide his darkening ears.

Race reeled back, shocked. “Guess I am, too,” he said in disbelief. “I’m gone.”

Spot stormed off the stage without looking back, and Race watched him go without trying to stop him or flirt with him or bring him back once.

“Shit,” he murmured, realization hitting him as the outside door to the lot slammed shut. “ _Shit._ ”

In the back of the room, Jack stood. “Shit,” he echoed. “What do we do now, guys?”

Crutchie looked around at the rest of them with widened eyes, and Romeo shrugged. All of them were at a complete loss for words, none of them wanting to believe that what they’d just seen was true.

“I wish I knew what to tell you,” Davey whispered, looking at Race’s lone figure on the stage as Race’s shoulders slumped, then he fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands and starting to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song lyrics are h e l l a a w k w a r d to turn into normal conversation, but. anyways. 
> 
> I realize that in the end of the REAL tmolm, it's more defiant and funny and angry, but I wanted to go for sadness more than anything
> 
> woops
> 
> sorry
> 
> also this is probably hecka ooc and I wish I was sorry for that but!!! alternate universes!!! yay!!!
> 
> love you all
> 
> thanks for reading
> 
> -byrd


	28. soulmate sneezing thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soulmate au where you and your soulmate's sneezes are aligned and you sneeze at exactly the same time~ requested by em

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> never in my hekcing life did I imagine I would ever title a chapter "soulmate sneezing thing"
> 
> thanks, em
> 
> anyways here you go- with a bonus rushed ending because i'm actual garbage ok
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

~

“Davey, I think I’ve found them,” Jack announced, coming through their apartment door with a crash as the door hit the wall, only deepening the dent put there by almost a year of living here. Having dramatic friends, almost all of whom were in some type of theater arts class at uni, was dangerous. They were prone to melodramatic outbursts, causing things like goddamn _holes_ in the wall from the doorknob.

Davey sighed, closing his laptop and composing himself before turning to face Jack. “Congratulations,” he said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “This is, what, the eighth time you’ve had this news?”

“Shut up,” Jack snapped. “Those were all false alarms. It wasn’t really them. This time I think I’ve _really_ found them.”

“And what makes you think that?” Davey asked, sounding bored. They’d had this conversation before, several times, because every time Jack and someone else sneezed within five minutes of each other, he freaked out, convinced that he had found The One.

“We sneezed at the _exact. Same. Time,_ ” Jack said, emphasizing each word. “It was almost creepy.”

It was common knowledge that soulmates sneezed at the same time, but since sneezing was such a random and unplannable thing, it was pretty hard to determine whether the person sitting beside you in class was the person you were meant to be with for the rest of your life… or it was just allergy season.

“Alright, and did you see what this person looked like?” Three false alarms ago, Jack hadn’t actually _seen_ the person, and that had triggered a manhunt across the campus to find this mystery sneezer.

And Davey wasn’t… actually _sure_ they had ever found the person. _Huh._

“Yes, this time I actually saw them,” Jack said. Then he hesitated. “I mean. Kind of.”

“Jack.”

“They’ve got brown hair!” Jack cried, putting up his hands defensively. “At least I know that!”

“Jack,” Davey said, very carefully. “Brown hair is the second most common hair color on the _planet._ ”

“I know, but-”

“ _I_ have brown hair,” Davey said. “ _You_ have brown hair. _Kath_ has brown hair. _Sarah_ has-”

“Okay!” Jack yelled, cutting him off. “I get it! I probably should have noticed more than his hair, but-”

“His?” Davey interrupted. “You’re sure it was a _he_?”

“I think so,” Jack said carefully. “I mean, it looked like it? And I _know,_ ” he said, seeing Davey about to say something and putting up a hand, “that I shouldn’t assume these things. But it _appeared_ to be a he.”

“Maybe we should just go with _they_ ,” suggested Davey, “at least until we know for sure.”

“Good plan. Okay. So. _They_ have short hair, and it’s kind of lightish brown? Not blond. But.”

“On a scale of my hair to… like, Specs’,” Davey said.

“Specs’ with more brown in it,” Jack replied. “And they’re small.”

“Short? Skinny?”

“Both.”

“Congratulations, Jack,” Davey said again, reaching for his laptop and opening it with a sigh. “You’ve just described half the people on campus.”

Jack made a frustrated huffing noise and propped his elbows on the counter, putting his head in his hands. “I’ve got to find them, Davey. I _know_ this is it. This is them. I can feel it.”

“I hope so, Jack,” Davey said tiredly. “For all our sakes.”

~

Jack was _sure_ that this time, he’d found them. His soulmate. The one he was destined to be with.

The only problem was that he hadn’t exactly seen their face, so now he had to wait until next week’s class to try and find them again and hope that when he sneezed, they did too.

“Why are you googling ‘how to make yourself sneeze’?”

Jack jumped, because he hadn’t even realized Romeo was there. He was in the corner table in the library, and his textbooks were open to the pages he needed, but he would be the first to admit he hadn’t done very much studying, instead thinking about his soulmate (well, hopefully) and what he could possibly do if it turned out that it _was_ them.

He slammed his laptop lid closed. “Go away.”

“Rude,” Romeo commented mildly, coming around and throwing his bag onto the table, right across from Jack. He took a seat and leaned forward, eyes alight with their signature twinkle. “This is about your soulmate, isn’t it?”

Jack didn’t say anything, but Romeo nodded as though he’d answered. “Thought so. You know, most people don’t _force_ it, Jack. They just let it happen. You’re bound to bump into them sooner or later, aren’t you?”

“As I recall, you and Specs met in the midst of spring, and he’s allergic to pollen,” Jack said dryly. “Even if you didn’t force it, that was still one of the easiest pairings I’ve ever seen. He was sneezing, like, eight times a minute. It wasn’t that hard.”

Romeo shrugged. “But we didn’t _make_ ourselves sneeze. It just _happened._ So you’ve got to just… go with the flow. Let it happen.”

“Fine advice from someone who’s already _met_ his soulmate,” Jack sighed, and Romeo grinned at him.

“You’ll find them soon enough,” he said reassuringly. “And they’ll love you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Jack asked skeptically.

Another shrug. “I just do.” Romeo rose to leave, grabbing his bag off the table and slinging it over his shoulder, but as he passed, he whispered, “Although dust does wonders for causing someone to sneeze.”

And then he was gone.

~

“Do you think the lecture hall is dusty enough to warrant sneezing?” Jack asked, coming in the apartment door.

Davey closed his eyes and counted to ten before turning around to face his roommate. “Hello Jack, nice to see you. I’m doing well, thank you, and you?”

“Shut up, Dave. I’m serious!”

“I can tell. What was the question?”

“How dusty is the lecture hall?”

“ _Why-_ ”

“I need to know if it’s dusty enough to make me sneeze,” Jack said, coming around and sitting beside Davey on the couch.

“I’ll ask again, _why_ \- oh.” Davey shut his laptop slowly. “This is about that person.”

Jack nodded emphatically. “My soulmate.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Only one way to find out,” Jack said with a shrug.

“Alright, you know what? Fine. _Fine._ This lecture hall- which one is it?”

“The… big grey one?”

“Jack,” said Davey slowly. “This is like the thing with the brown hair. We are at a _university._ Every _single damn building in a ten mile radius_ is grey.”

“Do you not have any classes in this one? It’s got the green banner hanging on it.”

“Our school. Color. Is green.”

“No, don’t do that,” Jack ordered, pointing to him. “You can’t just say that and make me feel stupid. There are only, like, three buildings on this half of campus with green banners. It’s the big grey building with the green banner on it like five minutes from here?”

“Jack, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Davey sighed, and he was about to say more, when the door burst open and Spot came in.

“Sup, bitches,” he called, throwing his bag down on the floor and flopping down on the armchair. “What’s happening?”

“Isn’t that door locked?” Davey asked, frowning at the front door.

“Not anymore,” Spot said casually, leaning back, looking the picture of ease. “What are we arguing about?”

“How did you know we were arguing?” Jack mumbled defensively. “We could have just been talking.”

“I could hear Jack’s voice all the way down the hall,” Spot said matter-of-factly. “Also, Davey looks _pissed._ ”

“I do not,” Davey snapped. He was apparently trying to rearrange his facial features so that he didn’t look pissed anymore. It didn’t work.

“Now you just look constipated,” Spot snorted, and he definitely deserved the pillow that he got to the face. “So what were we fighting about?”

“Jack’s wondering how dusty his lecture hall is,” Davey said, shooting Jack a look that conveyed exactly what he thought of this ridiculous request.

“Which lecture hall?” Spot asked.

Jack sighed, ready for another frustrating conversation. “It’s the big grey one with the green banner out front. It’s like five minutes from here.”

Spot scrunched up his face in thought. “What class is in this lecture hall?”

“Um, History of Art?”

Spot turned to Davey. “Webster Hall.”

Davey threw up his hands in frustration. “How do you _do_ that?”

Spot only grinned. “So why do you need to know how dusty that hall is?”

“His _soulmate_ ,” Davey sighed, and Spot nodded in understanding. “He’s trying to force them to sneeze to see if they’re the one.”

“There are easier ways to do this, dude,” Spot said.

“Such as?”

“Well, did you see what this person looked like?”

Jack could feel Davey glaring at him, so he sighed and admitted, “Not really.”

“But?” Spot asked in a hopeful tone.

“I only really saw their hair and body type. Not their face or anything.”

“And? This is information I need, Kelly.”

“Light brown hair. Short. Small.”

“Well, so much for that idea. I was about to suggest you stalk them around campus and see if your sneezes aligned, but you just described half the guys on campus.”

“ _Spot_.” Davey sounded horrified. “We are not condoning actions that may and probably will lead to a _restraining order._ ”

“I’m not saying _be a creeper_ ,” Spot defended. “I’m just saying follow them around for a bit, see if when they sneeze, you do too. Simple.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Aright, Spot. Let me just find this random stranger and _stalk_ them. That won’t end badly at all.”

“Shut up, Kelly. Unless you’ve got a better plan?” Jack started to respond, to defend his honor, but Spot cut him off. “Don’t tell me the dust thing. What were you planning on doing with it, anyways? Throwing it on them?”

Jack closed his mouth, because Spot _did_ have a point.

“It’s almost two, Spot,” Davey said. He had returned to his laptop, apparently bored with the conversation, and was typing furiously on whatever report or essay he was working on. “Don’t you have class?”

“Shit. Yes,” Spot hissed, leaping up from the armchair.

Jack feigned shock. “Wait, you actually take _classes?_ You mean you’re _not_ just a squatter?”

“Shut the fuck up,” snapped Spot, grabbing his bag off the ground. “I’ll have you know I take _plenty_ of classes.”

“What class is this one?” Jack asked.

“Advanced Writing,” Spot and Davey replied at the same time, and Spot looked at Davey, open-mouthed.

“How do you know that?”

“Spot,” said Davey in his _now, now_ tone, “I make it a point to memorize all my friends’ schedules so that if their pigheaded stubbornness or just overall skill at being an asshole gets them _slaughtered in an alley,_ I know where they’re most likely going to be based on what class they’re in.”

Spot nodded slowly. “Understandable. Well, I’m off to Advanced Writing, in case my _shining personality_ offends someone and I end up getting murdered behind the lecture hall. Not that this is new information to you or anything. Toodle-oo!”

He left, and Jack waited until he was sure Spot was out of earshot before snorting loudly. “As if he wouldn’t fight back, kick his attacker’s ass. How much do you want to bet he’s got a weapon on him somewhere?”

“Pocketknife in the pocket of his jacket,” Davey replied, almost as an automatic impulse. “When he wears his brown boots, he usually keeps another pocketknife in there, but he’s wearing his converse today.”

Jack just stared at him in shock for a second, searching for something, _anything,_ to say. “How do you- how do you _know_ these things?”

“Magic,” Davey said drily, and Jack rolled his eyes. “Your next class starts thirty minutes from now. Better go. That’s the professor who’s a stickler for attendance.”

“Do you have, like, individual reports on each of us?” Jack asked, even as he got up to retrieve his bag. “Telling you our little quirks and our schedules and shit?”

“Oh, yes,” Davey said earnestly. “I have folders on my laptop full of information on _all_ of you.”

Jack couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

~

During the next History of Art class, rather than actually paying attention to the lecture (it was fine, the professor got all his lessons off the internet and Jack knew all this shit anyways), he searched the hall for his soulmate. Or the person he thought was his soulmate, anyways.

 _Light brown hair._ There was a girl sitting beside him with sandy hair. A boy sitting in the front with light brown hair, and another boy just down the row from Jack. A girl with brown hair cut into a pixie cut sitting right in front of Jack.

 _Shit._ This was going to be a bit more difficult than he had originally planned.

At least he could rule out the first girl because her hair reached down her back. _Too long._

Then the boy down the row from him sneezed. A moment passed. Jack did not sneeze. He ruled out the boy down the row.

He didn’t _think_ that the girl with the pixie cut in front of him was his soulmate, because she was taller and larger than the person he’d seen last class.

 _If only this class had assigned seats,_ Jack thought longingly, glancing around the hall, where no one was in the same seat as last time. _This would be about twice as easy if everyone had consistent seats._

As for the boy in the front… well. It _could_ be him.

So Jack watched him closely, listening for a sneeze since he couldn’t actually see his face. He couldn’t tell a lot about him other than the fact that he had light brown hair, was wearing a blue shirt, and seemed to have headphones in, which probably meant that he wasn’t paying attention to the lesson. Not that Jack could blame him, but it was a risky move when you were sitting in the front row.

An entire class went by with no sneeze from Blue Shirt, and Jack could feel the disappointment seeping in. Next class, Blue Shirt would probably not be sitting in the front row or wearing a blue shirt, and those were about the only identifying characteristics Jack could count on himself to remember. _Dammit._

As the class packed up, Jack gathered his notebook, which he _told_ himself was for notes but was really for mindless doodles, and shoved it in his backpack. He stood, preparing to leave, and was searching for Blue Shirt in the crowd when something hit him in the shoulder.

“Crap,” Jack heard from the person in the seat behind him. “Sorry. Can you- I’m sorry, I dropped my-”

Jack found the pencil that had hit him and turned around, passing it up to the guy behind him. “Here you go.”

“Thank you so much,” sighed the guy, accepting it and slipping it into a side pocket of his bag, which was a messenger-type thing and only had one strap. Jack noticed this and then the crutch, which was propped against the guy’s chair.

“No problem,” said Jack with a grin.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “I would have come down to get it myself, but…” He gestured to the crutch.

Jack nodded. “Understandable. You break your leg?”

The guy exchanged a glance with the guy beside him, who, Jack noticed with a start, was wearing an eyepatch over one of his eyes. “Something like that,” the one with the crutch agreed. “Thanks again!”

“Anytime,” Jack replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder and leaving the lecture hall. It wasn’t until he was outside, taking a deep breath of air, that he realized he had no idea where Blue Shirt was. He wasn’t even sure which direction he’d gone; he’d been too busy talking to the guy with the crutch.

“Dammit,” he muttered, turning in a full circle and coming up with nothing. He couldn’t see Blue Shirt anywhere. _How far could a person go in twenty seconds?_

“ _Dammit,”_ he repeated. After another full circle brought him nothing, no blue shirt among the mass of students leaving the hall, he sighed, accepting defeat, and began the short walk back to his and Davey’s place.

~

“I think I found them,” Jack said as he came into the apartment, for once not flinging open the door.

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” Davey commented.

“Well, then I lost them,” sighed Jack, dropping his backpack on the ground and flopping down onto the couch with a sigh. “I didn’t see their face, but they were wearing a blue shirt and headphones and sitting in the front row but they didn’t sneeze all of class so I couldn’t be sure but I’m nearly positive it was them- and then I stayed back to talk to someone and I lost them.”

“They’ll be back in class again next time,” said Davey, sounding utterly unsympathetic towards his roommate’s situation. “You’ll see them then.”

“I’ll repeat- _the only things I noticed about them were their shirt color and the fact that they were wearing headphones,_ ” Jack said, clipping off every word in his frustration. “If they don’t wear a blue shirt and headphones and sit in the same place next class, I’m fucked.”

“Jack, if you’re really soulmates, you’ll find them again. I wouldn’t worry about it that much,” Davey said. “Who’d you stay behind to talk to? I thought you didn’t know anyone in that class.”

“I don’t,” said Jack, smiling faintly at the memory of the boy with the crutch. “Someone dropped their pencil on me, and I got it for them.”

“Were they incapable of getting it themselves?”

“No, but I wanted to help. Besides, he was on crutches, and I didn’t want him to have to walk all the way around the seats.”

“Interesting.” Davey glanced at the clock beside the television. “Well, not that this isn’t a fascinating conversation, but I’ve got to go to class. Do me a favor and try not to burn the apartment down, okay?”

“You have so little faith in me, David Jacobs,” Jack said, pressing a hand to his heart and feigning shock. “It _wounds_ me.”

“You’ll get over it,” said Davey tonelessly, but he was smiling.

Exactly four minutes after Davey left, shutting the front door behind him, Jack’s phone buzzed.

**[spot] hey can i come over**

**[me] what is this? is spot conlon asking permission rather than breaking & entering???**

**[spot] shut up asshole i made a friend but my roommate’s taking a nap so can we crash ur apt and mooch off ur netflix acc**

**[me] daveys not here rn if its the voice of reason youre looking for**

**[spot] i know. and i’m not. can we come over or not**

**[me] sure man i dont care**

**[spot] gr8 we’re standing outside**

There was a knock at the front door as Jack was reading the final message, and then the door opened.

“Sup, Kelly,” Spot called, coming into the apartment.

“Do you have a key to our place that I don’t know about?” Jack asked, not even bothering to get up and greet the two people that came in behind Spot. “Should I start locking up my valuables?”

“I don’t have a key. Jacobs wouldn’t trust me with one. And locking shit up wouldn’t do anything. I’d just pick that lock too,” Spot said.

“Hello.” Jack glanced between the two newcomers. “I thought you said you had one new friend. Not two.”

“I’m not his friend.” The guy who spoke was the shorter of the two, with dark hair and a bored expression on his face. “I just decided to tag along.”

“He was a surprise,” Spot agreed. “That’s Race. I didn’t actually know him until about ten minutes ago.”

“Race is my roommate,” the other guy offered. He had dark skin and darker hair, and friendly eyes that seemed to balance out the hostility in Race’s. “I’m Mush. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for letting us invade your place.”

Jack just sat there for a moment, taking Mush in, then turned to Spot. “I _like_ him. He’s _polite_. Where did you find him, again?”

“He’s mine,” Spot snapped, holding out an arm as if Jack was about to jump Mush. “Find your own.”

“We’re here for your Netflix,” Race said, crossing his arms.

“Shut up,” Mush said, swatting at his arm. “He’s letting us barge into his life and use his account. The least you could do is be nice.”

“ _Barge in?_ He’s alone,” Race snorted. “It’s not like we’re crashing a party.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Why couldn’t you do this at your place again, Spot?”

“Roommate’s asleep,” Spot supplied, coming around the couch and sitting down right beside Jack. Mush and Race stood awkwardly behind the couch for a moment, then took the armchair, with Mush in the seat and Race perched on the arm.

“Mush, pick something good,” Spot said, tossing him the remote, which Jack hadn’t even noticed him pick up.

“Oh, give me the remote,” Race said, reaching for it, but Mush held it out of reach.

“The day I hand you the remote is the day the world ends, Higgins,” he said, keeping it well out of Race’s reach and aiming it at the television.

“Today you had a class with your soulmate, didn’t you?” Spot asked, putting his feet up on the coffee table. Little clumps of dirt from his boots were shaken off the soles onto the table, and Jack remembered what Davey had said about the knife hidden in one of those boots.

“Don’t remind me,” Jack groaned.

Spot waved his hand like, _go on._ “I need a little more than that. A few days ago, you were excited to find out who they were. What changed?”

“I lost them again.”

Spot made a frustrated noise. “Again? What happened this time?”

“I didn’t actually see their face,” Jack grumbled. “They were sitting in the front row, so all I got was their shirt color and the fact that they were wearing earphones.”

“Earphones in Demarco’s class?” Spot sounded impressed. “That’s… daring.”

“Mm,” Jack hummed. He’d learned not to question how Spot knew such things, like who taught the class or why it was so dangerous to wear headphones. “But then I stayed behind to get this guy’s pencil and I lost them.”

“Who?”

Jack tried to keep himself from smiling at the memory of the boy with the crutch. _It was a two-second conversation. Chill out._ “The guy sitting behind me. He dropped his pencil on me and I got it for him.”

Spot was quiet for a long time, then he said, “Was he cute?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Jack said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not incriminating myself by telling you that I think someone’s cute, because with my luck, you’ll have found them by my next class and told them every embarrassing detail of my life.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that,” but Spot was grinning, so Jack wasn’t sure how serious he was.

“Give me the damn _remote,_ ” Race snapped from the chair, but he was at a severe disadvantage, since his arms were a good deal shorter than Mush’s, and Mush wasn’t giving up the remote anytime soon, holding it above his head and scrolling through the options on Netflix.

“So what did this cute person behind you look like?” Spot asked, bringing Jack’s attention back to him.

“I never said he was cute,” Jack said.

“You implied it,” Spot said, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s not important. What did he look like?”

“Um, he was short? Really tiny, actually. Freckles. Great smile.”

“Sounds like Jacky’s got a _cru-ush_.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Jack snapped, because he could feel his face burning and _dammit_ he would not turn into a blushing mess in front of Spot, who would never let him hear the end of it. “It was a ten-second interaction. I don’t even know his name.”

Spot scoffed. “Minor details, Kelly. And besides, you’re the one who noticed all these details in the ten seconds when you were talking to him. Anything else noteworthy?”

“Light brown hair,” Jack said, trying to concentrate when all he could think of was the boy with the crutch and his _adorable_ smile.

“Let me get this straight,” Spot said. “You met someone today, in that class where you were sure you had found your soulmate, and he just _happened_ to be small and have light brown hair when that’s _exactly_ what you were looking for?”

It took Jack a second, but he got it eventually. “Oh,” he murmured, feeling quite stupid. “Oh, shit.”

“ _Oh, shit_ is right,” Spot cried. “What if he’s the one? How do you plan on finding him again?”

“That won’t be a problem. He’s on crutches,” Jack said. “I can find him again, no problem.”

Spot froze. Like, actually _froze,_ his hand hovering mid-gesture.

“ _Crutches_? Plural?” he asked.

Jack started to nod. Surely the boy would have had two crutches, to make it easier to walk on his broken leg. But then he frowned, because he only remembered there being one crutch propped against his chair.

“Now that I think about it,” he said, “there was only one crutch. Weird, huh?”

Spot closed his eyes. “A tiny kid with light hair and a crutch.”

“You know him,” Jack observed. It wasn’t a question.

“Jack, I think you met my roommate,” Spot said.

“Your… roommate?” Jack hadn’t actually met Spot’s roommate yet, only heard stories about his crazy sleeping schedule and sweet personality.

“Yeah, my roommate. Crutchie,” Spot replied.

“That’s not very nice,” Jack said, feeling the need to defend this person he’d known for less than a full day.

“It’s how he introduced himself to me, he doesn’t care,” Spot said. “And his leg isn’t broken, Jack, it’s like, permanently fucked up. That crutch is permanent.”

“So this person…” Jack said, desperately trying to make sense of what was going on.

“Crutchie,” Spot supplied.

“I’m not calling him that. What’s his name?”

“I’m telling you, that’s how he introduced himself to me. His name is Crutchie.”

“Okay. Okay, fine. Crutchie- he’s apparently in my History of Art class.”

Spot nodded. “I remember seeing that on his schedule now. Didn’t connect the dots until now, but he definitely takes that class. He’s that type of person, you know?”

Jack didn’t grace that with a response, because more likely than not, he fell under that category too.

“And this Crutchie guy might be my soulmate,” Jack said. “Since he’s in that class and therefore it could have been him who sneezed that first day.”

“Correct,” said Spot. He appeared to be deep in thought. “So I suppose you two should, like, formally meet and see if you’re destined to be together forever, huh?”

Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. “Right _now_?”

“Why not?” Spot asked, getting up off the couch and grabbing his phone, slipping into his pocket as he held a hand out to Jack.

“We can’t do it _now,_ ” Jack spluttered. “I need time to process this and-”

“Time to process equals time to change your mind,” Spot reasoned. When Jack still didn’t accept his outstretched hand, he put it down. “Come on, Kelly.”

“But why now?”

“No time like the present,” Spot said. “Come _on._ ”

“Should we come?” asked Mush. He and Race seemed to have resolved their issue over the remote, although Race looked massively pissed off. Or maybe that was just his resting face.

“No, stay here,” Spot said. “I’ll be back soon. Jack, if you don’t get your ass up _right now-_ ”

“I’m coming,” Jack snapped, standing.

~

Crutchie had woken up from his nap after class and was sitting on his bed, eating a bowl of pretzels and going over his History of Art notes (although there was no pattern or reason to these notes and he was beginning to suspect the professor got his lectures off the internet) when Spot got home. And from the sound of it, he wasn’t alone.

“Didn’t you say your roommate was asleep?” the mystery person asked, and Spot scoffed.

“If he’s still asleep, he won’t be for long. AY, CRUTCH!”

“In here,” Crutchie called, trying not to laugh. A while ago, he would have been offended that, had he been asleep, Spot would have just rudely woken him, but now he was used to Spot and his antics.

Spot appeared in his bedroom doorway. “Hey, Crutch. What’s up?”

“Studying,” Crutchie said, making a face and taking another pretzel out of the bowl. “Who’s that with you?”

“Hmm? Oh, that’s Jack. C’mere, Kelly.”

And then someone else stepped into the doorway, and the pretzel fell out of Crutchie’s hand.

“Hello again,” said the guy who sat in front of him in History of Art.

“Hi,” breathed Crutchie, and he hoped to all the powers that be that he wasn’t grinning like an idiot. “I didn’t know you knew Spot.”

Spot snorted. “I’ve known Kelly longer than I’ve known you, man.”

“O-oh,” said Crutchie in a small voice. He racked his brains, trying to remember if he had said anything potentially incriminating about how hot he thought Jack was. _What if Spot had told Jack?_ He wouldn’t do that… would he?

At least he hadn’t told Spot his suspicions that Jack was his soulmate, because Spot would have laughed him into next week and then probably gone and told Jack about it. But Crutchie was almost _sure_ that when he had sneezed some time ago in History of Art, the dark-haired guy across the room from him had sneezed, too. But he wasn’t sure. So he had kept quiet, and _thank goodness._

“Jack Kelly here has something to ask you,” Spot said, gesturing towards Jack in a clear _your turn_ wave.

“Oh! I do?” Spot glared at him, and Jack cleared his throat. “Right. I do. Um.”

Crutchie moved aside his notes and turned fully towards Jack, giving him his full attention and desperately trying not to think about how cute it was when Jack blushed. _Focus._

“You’re hopeless,” Spot sighed, and left the doorway. Suddenly standing alone, Jack looked about twice as nervous, and Crutchie wondered what Jack could possibly have to say that would terrify him so much.

“I- that is, I mean,” and Jack put his hands over his face, possibly to hide how red his cheeks were getting.

Crutchie was delighted, and he did his very best not to laugh out loud because Jack was clearly struggling. Instead, he swung his legs around so that they were dangling off the bed and leaned forward, the picture of attentiveness. “It’s alright if you can’t tell me. You aren’t being forced or anything, and if it makes you uncomfortable-”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s-” Jack sighed. “Spot’s going to _murder_ me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” It was something of an inside joke between Crutchie and his friends, the idea that this tiny little kid with a bad leg could do anything even remotely resembling protection, but Jack didn’t seem to get the joke.

“No, see, I came here with a goal, and I didn’t realize it until after class, even though in hindsight, it was kind of obvious, since I didn’t even see that other guy’s _face-_ ”

“Jack, I happen to think you’re a great person, and I know Spot wouldn’t pick anyone less than fantastic for a friend, but I’m just going to be upfront with you. I have no idea what the _hell_ you’re talking about,” Crutchie said.

Jack made a frustrated sound and was about to say more, but he was cut off by Spot, who reappeared in the doorway and shoved a handful of something under Jack’s nose.

“What the _hell_ -” but Jack’s protest was cut off by three sneezes, in rapid succession. Crutchie would have laughed, but he was too busy sneezing. Three times. At the same time as Jack.

There was silence for a second, and then Jack said, “Well, shit.”

Crutchie just gaped, openmouthed, at Jack.

At his _soulmate._

“What-” he began, then was cut off as Jack (and he) sneezed again.

“Pepper,” said Spot in a self-satisfied way. “You’re still allergic to it, then.”

“What the hell- _yes,_ asshole. I am still allergic to pepper,” Jack said, glaring at him. Then his face softened, and he looked back at Crutchie. “So, um. Just wanted you to know that I think we might be soulmates.”

“You think?” Crutchie said, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, now I’m slightly more sure,” said Jack with an awkward laugh. “In fact, I’m very sure.”

“I should- um,” Crutchie said, sliding off the bed and balancing on his good leg while he retrieved his crutch from where it was propped against the bedpost. Then he stood, supported by the crutch, and held out a hand. “Hi. I’m Crutchie, your soulmate. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and I’d like to formally thank you for getting my pencil for me, which I did not in fact drop, but my friend Blink threw at you so you would turn around and he could measure just how attractive you were.”

Jack opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again and laughed. “The pleasure’s all mine, soulmate. I’m Jack, and I’ve been trying to find my soulmate since we sneezed at the same time like, a week ago.”

“I _thought_ that was you!” Crutchie cried. “I was right.”

“You were right,” whispered Jack, so soft that Crutchie barely caught it. “You were so right.”

“Fantastic,” declared Spot, and Crutchie jumped, having forgotten that his roommate was still standing there. “I’m going to make sure Race and Mush haven’t wreaked havoc on your apartment, and you two have fun. Stay safe. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That doesn’t exactly rule out a lot,” Jack murmured, but his eyes were still on Crutchie.

“Precisely. Okay, I’m leaving, so you two can kiss now. Toodle- oo,” and then he was gone.

“We’re not going to-” yelled Jack, but the front door was already slamming shut. He kept his eyes on Crutchie’s. “I mean, not unless you were- not unless you wanted to. I mean-”

Crutchie stepped forward and pressed his mouth to Jack’s, and anything else Jack was about to say was promptly cut off.

It was soft and sweet and over much too soon, at least in Crutchie’s opinion. When Jack gently pulled away, Crutchie opened his eyes, which he didn’t even remember closing, and met Jack’s own eyes.

“We’re doing this wrong,” Jack said with a light laugh. “I mean, we’re _soulmates,_ for crying out loud, and I still don’t know a thing about you except that your name is Crutchie and you think I’m so hot that you threw a pencil at me to properly see my face.”

“Ex _cuse_ me,” Crutchie protested. “That was _Blink_.”

“But you think I’m hot too, right?” Jack had a shit-eating grin on his face, and Crutchie shook his head, laughing, before resting his forehead on Jack’s chest.

“I do,” he murmured quietly, and felt Jack kiss the top of his head.

“We should… go on a date,” Jack said.

“A stellar idea. I like pasta,” Crutchie offered.

“Who doesn’t?” Jack agreed. “Come on, we’re going out for Italian food.” He separated himself from Crutchie and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Let me change,” Crutchie said, glancing down at his jeans and flannel over an old theater t-shirt. “I’m not exactly dressed to go out.”

“You look amazing,” promised Jack, and swooped down to kiss his forehead. “Come on, let’s go.”

Crutchie only grinned and let himself be pulled out of the apartment by Jack.

By his _soulmate._

~

Spot and Race just stared at each other from across the living room in horror. Whatever TV show they were watching kept playing, but it was ignored. Mush, sensing the tension, slowly began to get up off the couch and inch his way to the door.

Because Spot had just brushed his pepper-coated hands off on the couch, not knowing that Race, like Jack, was allergic.

Race had sneezed twice in a row. So had Spot.

_At the same time._

“Oh, _fuck_ no,” Spot hissed, and Race just glared.

Mush continued making his way to the door, and he was _almost there_ , _so close._ His hand closed around the doorknob and he whipped the door open. He was in the hallway, about to shut the door, when he heard

“I’m going to fucking _kill_ whoever came up with this soulmate shit.”

Mush slammed the door shut.

 _Wonder what that Jack guy’s up to?_ he wondered, pulling out his phone and praying to the good Lord in heaven that he wouldn’t have to deal with a dead body when all this was done.

_~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of this chapter was written either in study hall or on my back porch, while i was running on unhealthy amounts of caffeine and/or sugar
> 
> ...while rewatching my favorite vlog
> 
> sue me
> 
> I would tell y'all when the next chapter's going to be up but I honestly don't have a clue so
> 
> keep on keepin on
> 
> -byrd


	29. Jackcrutchie fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a birthday present for a fantastic friend and it is literally nothing but fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's not technically until tomorrow (shh) but I won't have internet all day tomorrow so 
> 
> shh
> 
> it's your birthday now 
> 
> happy birthday
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

The soft sound of the door closing made Crutchie look up from the dishes in the sink.

“Jack?”

A soft _thump_ answered him. Crutchie put the plate he had been washing down and turned the sink off, then retrieved his crutch from where it was leaning on the counter and made his way into the living room.

“Hey, babe,” he said quietly to the figure on the couch- Jack had thrown himself face-first onto it and was lying there, unmoving.

There was no response. Crutchie sat down on the couch at Jack’s feet and rested his crutch against the coffee table. “Long day?”

Jack groaned into the pillow, then lifted his head to speak. “You don’t know the _half_ of it, babe. I screwed up my painting and had to start over, and then I couldn’t duplicate the exact shade of the background, and _then_ the guy with the station beside me stole my brush and tried to deny it _Crutchie I could see the damn thing sticking out of his pocket_ and the professor told me I wasn’t being efficient enough and-” He stopped abruptly. “But you don’t want to hear all this shit. How was your day?”

“Boring,” Crutchie said honestly. “I had class at noon, but then nothing to do for the rest of the day. Met Race at Jacobi’s. Lazed around the apartment. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Were you waiting up for me?” Jack asked, flipping onto his back and tapping Crutchie’s thigh with his foot. “You shouldn’t have waited so long. You know I stay late at the studio on Friday nights.”

Crutchie hummed. “I know,” he murmured. “But I like waiting for you. I like you.”

No matter how many times he said that in their two months of dating, Jack’s face still broke into a huge grin upon hearing it, which filled Crutchie’s chest near to bursting with emotion. “I like you too.”

“Glad to hear it,” Crutchie scoffed, but he was smiling ear-to-ear, so it wasn’t as sarcastic as he had intended. “Seeing as we are _dating_ and all.”

Jack’s smile was exhausted and slightly loopy but still as attractive as the first time Crutchie had ever seen it. He would never, _ever_ grow tired of seeing that amazing smile.

Jack sat up, swinging his legs around to rest them on the floor, and Crutchie scooted over so that they were right beside each other. He leaned his head against Jack’s shoulder, and Jack pressed a kiss to his head.

“Love you,” Crutchie whispered, and he could feel Jack smiling against his hair. “Want to watch something on Netflix?”

“I want to take you out to eat,” Jack said. “But we could do a quiet night in, if that’s what you-”

“No, eating out is great!” Crutchie was quick to interject. “I’d love to. Where were you planning on going?”

“Anywhere,” Jack said. “Anywhere you want to go.”

“Sure,” said Crutchie. “Just let me change-”

“No, I like what you’re wearing,” Jack butted in, leaning back and giving Crutchie a once-over.

Crutchie made a face, looking down at his ratty jeans and soft old sweatshirt (one of Jack’s). “I’m hardly the height of fashion, Jack.”

“I think you look fantastic,” Jack said, meeting Crutchie’s eyes, and Crutchie couldn’t help the slight way his breath hitched at the eye contact because he was _so in love with this boy, how was it physically possible to be this in love?_

“Jack,” he said, but the words died in his throat because he couldn’t possibly express how much this meant to him. How much _Jack_ meant to him.

“I know,” murmured Jack, and Crutchie knew he understood what Crutchie couldn’t say out loud. “Go get ready, okay? But I think you look fine just how you are.”

“You’re a sap,” Crutchie informed him.

“You love it,” laughed Jack, giving Crutchie a little shove off the couch. “Go on, we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

Crutchie grabbed his crutch and went into his bedroom, grinning the whole way and very aware of how cheesy he would look if anyone were to walk in.

Somehow, he couldn’t find it in him to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this it was literally just fluff because I wanted to


	30. go west, young man (but then come home to me)- jackcrutchie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we broke up after i left and moved away and months later i find out you rushed to the airport to stop me but you were too late-  
>  jackcrutchie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> byrd's back tell a friend 
> 
> thank u to em for giving me this prompt half a year ago 
> 
> it helped to snap me out of my writer's block today thanks babe ily
> 
> this is long! i'm back to writing long shit! yay!
> 
> this has got all the shit in it.. jackcrutchie... sprace... newsbians... smalls/sniper... blush...
> 
> admittedly most of those are background ships but liste n they are still htere 
> 
> i'm so tired please let me sleep 
> 
> here goes nothing 
> 
> -byrd

Realistically, Jack knew that eventually he would be coming back to New York. 

It was the city he’d been born in, the streets he’d grown up on, the only thing he’d known up until his last year of college, when he’d kissed it all goodbye and left for New Mexico. 

And New Mexico was amazing. Truly. It wasn’t as loud and hectic all the time, and when he went out into the desert, away from the larger cities, the sunsets and sunrises were to  _die_ for. 

Still, Jack knew eventually he would come back to Manhattan. All his friends were still here. Medda was still here, and his foster siblings were still here. 

 _Someone else is still in Manhattan, too,_ a little gremlin somewhere deep inside his brain whispered, but he ignored it. He’d broken up with Crutchie months ago, right before he’d moved to Santa Fe. He had explained where he was going, why he was leaving, and asking if maybe they needed a break, and Crutchie had responded by completely shutting him out. 

He hadn’t even come to the airport to see Jack off. 

But Jack had since gotten over it. He’d gone out with a few people since he’d moved out west, and while none of them had been particularly life-altering in a soulmate-type way, he was perfectly happy. He liked his new life. 

Even so, when Spot called him early one morning with a demand posed as a friendly invitation, Jack knew he didn’t  _really_ have a choice. 

“Kelly,” Spot said when Jack fumbled for his phone on the bedside table and answered it. That was it. No preamble, no greeting. Just  _Kelly._ This, at least, hadn’t changed since Jack had left. 

 

“Do you have  _any idea_ what time it is here?” Jack snapped, exhausted. 

“Shut up, you baby,” Spot said. “There’s only a two hour time difference. You’ll live.”

Jack groaned, throwing an arm over his face. “Did you call me to yell at me about time zones?” he asked, knowing Spot wouldn’t waste a phone call on that. 

“No, ass. I have a reason. It’s Race’s twenty-second birthday on Friday, and we’re making it a huge deal since he missed out on a bunch of birthdays growing up.”

“Spot, I don’t-”

“Medda’s already arranged your travel tickets, so you don’t have to worry about your broke artist’s ass going even more broke, so that’s not a fucking excuse.”

“ _Spot_ -”

 

“And it would mean a lot to Race, dude. And our sister. Smalls hasn’t seen or talked to you in  _forever._ It’d mean a lot to her. _”_

 _It would mean a lot to me_ went unsaid, but it was still there. Jack sighed, knowing he’d been shot down. Besides, it would be nice to go see all his friends again- Skype and FaceTime only went so far when you were missing not only your friends’ faces but their voices and habits and  _lives,_ too.

“I’m coming,” he said, before Spot could argue any more points. 

“I know you are,” Spot agreed. “But just in case you tried to worm your way out of it, I  _also_ already told Les that you were coming.”

 

“You sick son of a bitch.” Les would be absolutely  _thrilled_ that Jack was visiting, and they both knew it. Disappointing Les meant causing the greatest kid in the world absolute  _heartbreak._ Jack would be an ass if he dropped out now. 

“Uh-huh.” Spot didn’t sound all that concerned. “So I’ll see you Wednesday?”

“Wednesday? His party isn’t until Friday, Spot.”

“Yeah, I don’t care. Call it party planning. Call it catching up with people, I don’t give a shit. Take off work and haul ass up here, because I know there are some people who you need to do some  _serious_ catching up with.”

Jack knew exactly what Spot was talking about, and his face burned. He could feel his tone getting more defensive as he spoke, but he didn’t care. “Crutchie and I broke up, Spot.”

“Yeah, and it made you both miserable as  _shit,_ so maybe some of that can get resolved when you come up, too. Anyways! See you in a few days. Don’t get yourself murdered between now and then.”

 

Jack opened his mouth to speak, to argue, to defend his honor, to say that he was  _over_ Crutchie, that he wasn’t  _miserable,_ but before he could say anything, Spot hung up on him. 

 

Jack dropped his phone onto his chest and ran a hand through his hair. Today was Monday. That meant he had two days to pack and prepare to leave. Prepare to see some people he hadn’t seen in months. Prepare to sleep on someone’s couch for however long Spot was planning on holding him hostage in New York. Prepare to have some conversations he…  _really_ did not want to have.

His phone dinged with a new text, and Jack lifted it off his chest to find Spot’s name blinking on his screen.

**[spit pot man] hey ass i made a mistake**

**[spit pot man] ur tickts are scheduled for tues not wed**

**[spit pot man] idk if that changes anything but**

**[me] spot i cant take off work with only a days notice**

**[spit pot man] yes u can**

**[me] no i really cant theyre going to fire me**

**[spit pot man] so i shld tell les its a no go then**

**[me] i hate u**

**[spit pot man] get in line buddy**

Jack dropped his phone onto the bed beside him and sighed. 

“Shit.” There was  _no way_ his boss was going to let him off work with such short notice. 

 _Time to find a new job,_  he thought dismally, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, stretching, and surveyed his disaster of an apartment, with clothes strewn here and there and paint on every conceivable surface where there could be paint. Unfinished art pieces stood propped against the wall, and finished ones sat in much the same position. His little kitchenette was a warzone of dirty dishes and coffee mugs sitting in precarious places, the victims of too many “I’ll wash those later”s. 

Somehow, he was supposed to find enough clothes in this mess to pack a bag to hold him over for several says. Somehow, he was supposed to call his boss and ask for time off work when he knew as well as anyone who had ever worked for Snyder that the man didn’t just  _let people off._ Somehow, he was supposed to find the courage to face Crutchie in two days.  _Crutchie,_ who he hadn’t spoken to since they had broken up. 

Then he really thought about Crutchie, thought about how the time spent dating him had been some of the best of his life. He thought about Crutchie’s smile, his pout when he wanted something and Jack refused him, his fiery expression when he was about to tell off an asshole. 

He thought about the way Crutchie gripped the handles of his forearm crutches when he got mad. He thought about the way Crutchie’s eyes twinkled just a  _bit_ more than usual when he got an idea. He thought about the way Crutchie always let go of at least one of his crutches to grab Jack’s arm when they kissed-

And this thinking was straying into  _very dangerous territory, very quickly._

He needed to  _not be thinking about Crutchie._ He needed to be  _over_ Crutchie. 

 _You’re not over him,_ a tiny voice inside his head whispered.  _You never were._

He thought about the people he’d dated since moving out west. There had been Gabby, who he worked with. Jon, the guy from the dating app. Marisa, who he’d quite literally bumped into on the street, thought he was funny, and struck up a conversation and eventually a relationship. A guy named Charlie who bore a striking resemblance to the Charlie back home in New York (but he didn’t think about that). Luke. One other guy, whose name Jack couldn’t remember because he literally hadn’t been able to make it through one date with him. 

He’d been happy with those people (except for the last guy, of course). He’d even loved some of them. But they just hadn’t been  _right._

 _They weren’t Charlie,_ the little voice whispered.  _They weren’t your Charlie. They weren’t Crutchie._

 _Shut up,_ he told the little voice. 

He was  _over_ Crutchie. 

Which meant that he could surely,  _surely_ go back to New York and have civil conversation with people without making a fuss. 

_Surely._

This would be fine, he told himself. This was going to be absolutely fine. 

~

This was  _not_ going to be absolutely fine. 

Jack figured out this helpful tidbit of information as soon as he got back into Manhattan. Medda had called him while he was still on the train to tell him that her apartment had flooded and she was staying with friends while the landlord sorted it all out, which was fine and dandy, but now he couldn’t crash on her couch. 

“It’s fine,” he had assured her. “Someone’ll have room for me. I’ll crash with one of the guys.”

Which was a grand plan except for one minor detail: while Jack had been away, the housing arrangements had changed somewhat. 

As couples got more serious about their relationship statuses, they had started moving in together, and now there was little to no space anywhere. Mush was living with Blink, Kath and Sarah shared an apartment, even his little sister had snagged an apartment with Sniper. Spot and Race, however, did not live together, which Jack found hopeful. Race lived with Albert, and Spot offered up the couch in his own apartment, which Jack gladly accepted, not even thinking about who Spot’s roommate was. 

“Shit,” he muttered, when he remembered. He was in the subway tunnel, buying a metrocard like it was second nature, swiping it like he had every day of his life, when it suddenly hit him that sharing an apartment with his brother...

 _...Also_ meant sharing an apartment with his ex. 

“Shit,” he muttered again. “Shit  _damn.”_

The woman standing next to him on the subway platform gave him an odd look, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. There was no  _possible_ way he was sharing a living space with Crutchie for the next several days. 

He pulled open the text from  **[spit pot man]** that read  **weve got a couch u can crash on. no r-ships in this aptmt.**

**[me] shit, spot**

**[spit pot man] i was wondering how long it wld take u to figure it out**

**[me] i cant live w him spot**

**[me] i rly cant**

**[spit pot man] tough shit, kelly**

**[spit pot man] unless u want 2 try ur luck on the streets, i dont have an answer for you**

**[me] shit**

**[spit pot man] yeah, yeah**

**[spit pot man] cry me a river**

**[spit pot man] how soon are u getting here?**

**[me] getting on th subway now**

**[spit pot man] damn guess i’d better start cleaning**

**[spit pot man] ... that was a joke**

**[spit pot man] im not cleaning 4 your ungrateful ass**

**[me] im not ready to see him again, spot**

**[spit pot man] would it be better or worse if he was here when u arrived**

**[me] better**

**[me] worse**

**[me] shit i dont know**

**[spit pot man] buddy youve got like**

**[spit pot man] less than 20 min to figure it out**

**[me] can u get him to leave?**

**[me] i just dont know if i can do this rn**

**[spit pot man] ill see what i can do**

**[me] thank you, spot**

**[spit pot man] yeah, yeah**

Jack exhaled a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding in and pressed his phone against his chest. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed that Crutchie wouldn’t be in the apartment when he got there. 

It felt like a mixture of both, and he didn’t know what to do with it. 

~

Through a little bit of luck and a lot of bribing Spot to keep his roommate out of the apartment while Jack was there, Jack managed to avoid seeing Crutchie until Thursday, when the group all got together to formally say hello to Jack again after months of him being in Santa Fe. 

They all met at Jacobi’s, the tiny deli where they had grown up going every day after school, just for old time’s sake, and at the beginning of the meal, Spot called a toast “to Jack, the shithead who left us for the fucking  _desert,”_ and everyone cheered and toasted. 

As luck, or fate, or destiny (or Spot) would have it, Jack ended up being seated right across from Crutchie for the entirety of the meal, so he couldn’t even stare straight ahead without meeting Crutchie’s eyes. 

He’d forgotten how nice Crutchie’s eyes were. 

Which  _definitely_ wasn’t the point of tonight, he thought, tearing his gaze away for what felt like the eightieth time. He wasn’t here to stare at Crutchie. He was here to celebrate with friends, and have a good time. 

He and Spot and Crutchie ended up all going back to the apartment together, and since it was close enough to walk, they did. They were silent as they walked, the only sounds coming from Crutchie’s forearm crutches clicking quietly against the pavement or Spot’s slight wheeze, born from a childhood of asthma that he’d never quite kicked. 

When they got into the apartment, well past two in the morning, Spot went straight to his room to go to bed and Jack crashed onto the couch with a loud groan. 

Crutchie went to his room, but lingered in the doorway. “Hey, Jack?”

Jack made an unintelligible noise into the couch cushions. 

“Goodnight,” Crutchie said, so softly Jack almost thought he’d imagined it. “Sweet dreams.” 

And then Crutchie’s bedroom door closed with a quick  _click,_ leaving Jack lying facedown on the couch, wondering what the  _hell_ he was doing back here, in New York,  _in the same damn apartment as Crutchie Morris, who’d broken his heart._

 _I can’t deal with this right now,_  Jack thought, as he drifted off to sleep right where he was. 

~

Race’s party was big, and loud, and an absolute  _mess,_  which Jack figured was characteristically appropriate. 

They’d started the party at Race and Albert’s apartment, then moved to the restaurant for dinner, and then went club-hopping for the majority of the rest of the night, with the intention of eventually going back to Race and Albert’s to crash for the night. 

Jack was relieved to see that, in his time away, the group’s old habits hadn’t changed. Specs still preferred not to drink, so he named himself Designated Sober Person to corral everyone to the next bar and make sure no one was left behind. Davey was still  _terrible_ at holding his alcohol. Spot was still  _amazing_ at it. Romeo loved dancing, and Specs hated it but would do almost anything for their partner if Romeo batted their eyelashes. Smalls loudly proclaimed that every single song that came on was “MY  _JAM_ ,” which was a habit dating back to when she was in sixth grade, back when she was in sixth grade and joined Jack’s family as his newest foster sibling. Sniper thought she was adorable, and made sure to tell her so every few minutes. 

Race spent the night making his way around their friend group, accepting congratulations for surviving another year and turning down dance requests, claiming he “wasn’t drunk enough yet.” 

But at the third club, Romeo finally managed to convince him to dance, dragging him out onto the dance floor and holding his attention for a solid five minutes with Specs and Spot watching on from the table. Finally, Spot seemed to lose patience and downed the entire rest of his drink, slammed the glass on the table, and stood, making his way out to the dance floor. He shoved Romeo aside, taking their place to dance with Race.

Romeo pretended to pout as they came back to the table, where Specs, Jack, Crutchie, and Sarah were sitting, nursing their own drinks. 

“Come dance with me?” they asked Specs, who hesitated, even though everyone at that table and their mother knew it would be less than forty-five seconds before they got up to join Romeo on the dance floor. 

“True love,” sighed Sarah, as, sure enough, thirty seconds later, Specs left the table to go dance with their partner. She turned to Jack, and whether it was the alcohol or the Jacobs blood in her, she had a devious smirk on her face. “So, Jack. How’s your love life?”

Jack snorted into his glass. “Nonexistent. Why? You interested?”

Beside him, Crutchie made a choking noise into his drink, which Jack debated pointing out and then decided to leave alone. Crutchie was just drunk. That was all.

“Unfortunately for you, I have a girlfriend, who happens to be  _way_ prettier than you,” Sarah said. 

“Where is Katherine?” Crutchie asked. 

“Trying to flirt her way into another free drink,” Sarah laughed. “I don’t think this bartender is going for it, though.”

Jack scanned the bar located against the wall for Katherine’s long brown hair, but he couldn’t spot her. “Huh. Did it work at the other clubs?”

Sarah gave him a look. “What do you think?”

“It’s  _Kath,”_ Crutchie pointed out, and alright, that was fair. 

For some reason, Crutchie had been.... almost  _nice_ to Jack this entire party. Jack supposed it was just out of courtesy to Race, who probably didn’t want his party ruined by spiteful exes, but that didn’t mean he was complaining. He liked it when Crutchie wasn’t acting like he hated him. 

All of a sudden, Albert appeared out of the moving mass of bodies on the dance floor, supporting a slumped Race with an arm slung around his back. 

“Time to go,” Albert ordered, and the three people sitting at the table leapt to their feet. 

“Fuck,” Crutchie said weakly, taking in Race’s bleeding face.

“What happened?” Sarah asked. 

“Homophobes happened,” Albert grumbled. He deposited Race into one of the chairs. “He’s fine. Bloody nose, probably has the wind knocked out of him. The guy hit him pretty hard.”

“Where’s Spot?” Crutchie and Jack demanded at the same time.

“Where the hell do you  _think_ Spot is?” Albert demanded. “He’s beating the shit out of the guy who called Race that slur. So now I’m going to get him so that he doesn’t have to face criminal charges for murder, and  _you_ three are going to round everyone else up so that we can get the hell out of here before things  _really_ start going south.”

And with that, he vanished into the crowd of drunk, dancing partygoers. 

They managed to round everyone up within ten minutes, which was partially due to Katherine Plumber and her commanding, ear-splitting yelling, and found themselves out on the streets of Manhattan, a stumbling group of (some  _very drunk_ ) people. 

Crutchie and Specs took the lead, and since cramming twenty-something people into an Uber wasn’t sounding like an ideal plan, they just decided to walk. Albert had managed to pry Spot off the homophobe, and now Jack was walking beside him, listening to him spit curses under his breath as he walked hand-in-hand with Race, whose nose hadn’t stopped bleeding yet. 

Sarah and Katherine’s arms were linked, and while both of them had had a significant amount of alcohol, their steps were steady (Jack suspected that they were supporting each other, but then again, both girls had always been good at handling their alcohol intake). Specs was giving Romeo a piggyback, and beside them, Smalls was trying to convince her girlfriend to give  _her_ one, too (Sniper wasn’t going for it). Davey had an arm slung around JoJo’s shoulders, although whether it was for Davey’s sake or JoJo’s was anyone’s guess. 

Somehow, they made it back to Race and Albert’s apartment without any more major incidents, and several people immediately crashed on the ground or in a chair or on a sofa somewhere. Albert offered up his bed to Smalls and Sniper, but Race threatened death upon anyone who invaded his room, so everyone else found a spot in the living room to settle in.

It was cramped and crowded and everyone was touching everyone else somehow, but Jack realized, with a jolt, that this was exactly what he had missed so much in New Mexico. He’d missed the closeness of their friend group. He’d missed loving each of them like they were family. He’d missed  _this,_ sitting on the couch with Katherine on one side of him and Crutchie on the other. Mush and Blink were somewhere at his feet, and Spot and Race were sharing the armchair directly to his right. 

He’d missed this more than anything, he realized. He didn’t  _want_ to go back out west. 

A sudden weight on his chest made him jump, and he looked down to see that Crutchie was fast asleep and had tipped sideways  so that his head was resting on Jack. 

 _Oh...._  he would miss this too. 

Without a doubt. 

Later, he would blame it on the alcohol, or the late hour of the night (or rather, the early hour of the morning, technically, as it was well past four am), or simply his lack of self control, but Jack’s hand slowly came up to card itself through Crutchie’s hair. 

Crutchie made a soft sound in his sleep, and Jack froze, because Crutchie might as well have smacked him in the face.  _What the hell was he doing?_  He and Crutchie were  _done._ Crutchie  _hated_ him, or at the very least, certainly didn’t like him very much anymore. 

He needed to get off the damn couch. Away from Crutchie, his ex who he just couldn’t seem to get over. Away from his soft hair and little noises in his sleep and the gentle weight of his head on Jack’s chest. 

Jack stood abruptly from the couch, disturbing both Crutchie and Kath, whose head had been resting on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered distractedly. “I need to... I have to go.”

Dodging sleeping people on the ground left and right, he made his way out of the living room and quickly debated shutting himself in the bathroom. He changed his mind when he pulled the shower curtain back to find Davey, fast asleep in the bathtub, fully clothed and snoring quietly. 

So instead, he found himself on the fire escape, leaning on the railing and looking out into the alley below. There was still a rope tied to the railing where Albert and Henry had tried rappelling down the building into the alley below, which had resulted in both of them needing hospital visits for a combined four broken bones between the two of them. One Fourth of July, Race and Spot had set off (definitely illegal) fireworks in the alley- the scorch marks were still prominent on the brick wall. 

Jack smiled despite himself. There were so many memories here, in this building, in the city. He was definitely going to miss it. 

He thought about the day he had figured out he was moving away, to Santa Fe. He remembered the look on Crutchie’s face when Jack told him he was leaving, the betrayal that crossed his features when Jack sheepishly admitted that he’d been planning this trip for weeks.

 _When were you going to tell me?_ he had demanded. _The day you left New York for good? What the hell, Jack?_

Jack had made excuses, argued, and begged, but in the end, Crutchie had looked up with hardened eyes and said, _If you can’t be honest with me, maybe taking a break is best for both of us._

 _I never said anything about taking a break,_ Jack pleaded, but Crutchie shook his head.

 _Long-distance relationships are harder anyways, Jack,_ he said softly, getting up, positioning his crutches, and making his way to the door. _I’m gonna go stay with Spot for a while, okay?_

They hadn’t spoken again, and Jack had left New York. There had been a goodbye get-together among a small group of friends, only Katherine, Sarah, Davey, Spot, and Smalls, and Crutchie hadn’t attended.

Jack hadn’t expected him to, but it still stung.

And then, to add insult to injury, Crutchie hadn’t gone to see him off at the airport.

 _He hadn’t even said goodbye._ The greatest relationship of Jack’s life, his best friend in the world, his wonderful boyfriend, hadn’t come to the airport to see him off.

Jack hadn’t even realized he was crying until a teardrop hit the metal railing, and he wiped his eyes in case someone came out here and caught him get all weepy over old hurts.

Sure enough, the door opened behind him, and Jack hurriedly finished wiping his eyes. He didn’t trust himself to turn around, so he waited for whoever it was to either start speaking or realize he was out here and leave.

Whoever it was didn’t say anything, and the door closed behind them. There was a slight shuffling, and then a footstep and a _click._

A _click_ of a _crutch._

_Fuck._

“Fuck,” Jack whispered. “What do you want?”

“Hello to you too,” Crutchie replied stiffly. “Just wondered what you were doing out here all alone.”

“Nothing,” Jack sighed. “It was getting too stuffy in there. I needed some air.”

“Ah, so that’s what the whole _brooding-on-the-fire-escape_ thing translates to.” Crutchie rolled his eyes, coming up beside Jack. “C’mon, Jack. I know you. What were you thinking about to make you so distant all of a sudden?”

“Santa Fe,” Jack said truthfully, and Crutchie let out a huff.

“Sorry it’s so _shitty_ here that you can’t even go a week without dreaming about your home sweet home,” he snapped. “I’ll just leave you to daydream about the good ol’ wild west, shall I?”

He turned to leave, and something inside Jack thought, _Let him go._ This was closure. This was the way to get over his feelings for Crutchie once and for all. Get Crutchie so pissed at him that he’d never dream of trying to contact Jack again.

But another, louder part of his brain thought, _No, wait._ He grabbed Crutchie’s arm before he could reach the door and said, “No, Crutch, not like that.”

“I’m waiting,” Crutchie said impatiently, yanking his arm back.

“I was thinking about how much I’m going to miss this when I go back,” Jack said.

“This?”

“All of it, _,_ ” Jack said, gesturing all around him. “ _This._ New York. Manhattan. You guys. Hell, I was even getting sentimental over this stupid fucking alley.”

Crutchie’s lips twitched upwards. “To be fair, it is a stupid fucking alley full of memories.”

“I _know,_ ” Jack cried, and then he was crying all over again. “Shit, Crutchie, I’m going to miss it. I’m going to miss _you-_ ” and with that, he snapped his mouth closed, because he _really_ did not need to be spilling his guts right now.

“What?”

“Nothing, Crutchie.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Jack Kelly,” Crutchie said fiercely. “What did you say?”

“I said…” _No way of getting out of it now. “_ I said I’m going to miss you.”

“Then why the hell are you leaving?” Crutchie asked. “Why… why did you leave in the first place? Why did you leave us? Why did you leave _me_?”

His voice broke on _me,_ and then he was crying, too. A pair of crying boys on a fire escape at four in the goddamn morning. It was like something out of a movie, and Jack gave a watery laugh at the thought.

“What does Santa Fe have, that you were so desperate to get away?” Crutchie demanded. “What does it have that you can’t find right here in Manhattan?”

Jack had once known the answer to that question. Now, after six months of living in New Mexico, he found he had no idea. Why the hell was he continuing to live so far away? Everything he wanted was right here in New York.

“There’s nothing,” he said. “It’s not… what I thought it would be. At all. I want to come home, Crutch.”

“Then _why didn’t you?_ ” Crutchie hissed.

“I thought you hated me,” he whispered.

“I did,” Crutchie said. “For like, a week. And then I got the hell over it and decided I still loved you-”

Jack let out a strangled noise. “You _what_?”

“Shut up and let me finish,” Crutchie said, holding up a hand for silence. “I realized I was still in love with you, so I ran to your apartment in the rain, like the main character in one of those cheesy romance movies you love so much… and you were gone.”

“I’d already left,” Jack said, horrified.

“You weren’t out of the state yet,” Crutchie murmured, tracing his finger along the metal railing. “I could’ve caught you, if I went a little bit faster…”

“Crutchie,” Jack whispered. “What are you saying?”

“You know _damn_ well what I’m saying,” Crutchie snapped, but there was no heat behind his words. He just sounded hollow and _sad,_ and Jack wanted nothing more than to wrap Crutchie in his arms and never let go.

“No, I don’t,” Jack insisted. “I don’t know, Crutchie.”

Crutchie squeezed his eyes shut. “I tried to catch you, but I was too late.”

“What?” Jack was utterly lost. “You tried to catch me?”

“God _dammit,_ Jack, I ran to the airport to try and catch you!” Crutchie yelled, and Jack backed up a step on the fire escape. “I ran to the fucking airport to tell you I loved you, and to try and talk you out of going to _fucking Santa Fe,_ because everyone you love was in New York and there was nothing _fucking_ out there for you, but I was too late! I was too…”

Crutchie started crying again, and this time, Jack went against every instinct he had telling him to back off and instead held out his arms. Crutchie didn’t hesitate before stepping into them, and Jack wrapped his arms around the shaking, crying boy and held on as tight as he could as _he_ started crying, too.

“I came for you,” Crutchie whispered. “I came to try and stop you. I was too late, I’m sorry, I didn’t make it-”

“Shh,” Jack murmured, running a soothing hand back and forth on Crutchie’s back. “It’s alright, it’s okay, I’m here now.”

“But you’re _leaving!_ ” Crutchie cried, pulling apart from the hug. “You’re leaving again in who knows how many days, and then what? Another six months of silence?”

 _We can keep in touch,_ Jack almost said. _We can try that long-distance thing._

Instead, he looked into the eyes of the boy he’d once been in love with, was _definitely_ still in love with, and probably wouldn’t ever _stop_ being in love with, and said, “Tell me to stay.”

“W-what?” Crutchie clearly hadn’t been expecting that.

“Tell me,” Jack said, taking a step closer so that their chests were pressed together, “to stay.”

Crutchie seemed to be frozen where he was, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, so Jack made the first move. He brought their faces closer, _impossibly, unbearably close,_ but he didn’t close the distance. He just stayed right there, their mouths mere millimeters apart, and wondered if he was making a huge mistake, wondered if Crutchie was going to push him away.

But instead of pushing him away, Crutchie closed his eyes and leaned in, pressing their mouths together in a sweet kiss that took Jack’s breath away.

And _God,_ Jack had missed this, more than he’d let himself admit these past several months. He’d _missed_ Crutchie, dammit, missed his presence and the feeling of his mouth and even the way he smelled. He’d missed getting to kiss Crutchie whenever he wanted. He’d missed talking to Crutchie.

He’d missed _Crutchie._

“Stay,” Crutchie gasped into Jack’s mouth. “Stay, Jack, stay here in New York with me.”

In answer, Jack opened his mouth into the kiss and brought an arm around Crutchie’s waist, pulling him still closer. One of Crutchie’s arms came up to wind itself in Jack’s hair, and one of his crutches clattered to the fire escape noisily. Crutchie paid it no mind, tugging slightly on Jack’s hair and smiling into the kiss when Jack gasped.

“I’ll stay,” Jack murmured. “I’ll stay in New York. I’m staying for Manhattan and I’m staying for our friends and I’m staying for my siblings but mostly I’m just staying for _you,_ Crutch.”

“God, I love you,” Crutchie said in a hushed tone, eyes still closed. He opened them, and brilliant green eyes ringed with smile lines, red from crying, met Jack’s own brown eyes. “I love you so much, Jack Kelly.”

“I love you too,” Jack said, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever meant anything in his life as much as he meant those words. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and he punctuated each _I love you_ with a kiss.

“Don’t ever leave me for a fucking desert again,” Crutchie whispered angrily, and Jack laughed and captured his lips in another kiss.

“Never,” he promised. “I’m staying right here.”

“Damn right you are,” Crutchie said happily, He sounded perfectly content, perfectly set on kissing Jack for the rest of his life, and Jack?

Jack wasn’t complaining.

~

Back inside the apartment, Spot and Race were curled together in the armchair. Most of their friends had long since fallen asleep, but when Spot looked up from their entwined hands, Race’s eyes, so dark brown they were almost black, were fixed on him.

“Hey,” Spot said quietly.

“Hey,” Race replied.

“I’m sorry for ruining your birthday by getting in a fight.”

Race scoffed gently. “Are you kidding me? This has been one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Spot muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Spot.” Race’s tone was dead serious, and Spot reluctantly met his eyes again. “You know me, dude. Come on. Have I ever lied in my _life_ to make you feel better?”

“…No,” Spot admitted.

“I’m not fucking with you, Spot. This had been one of my best birthdays, to date. Thank you,” and Race leaned over to peck him lightly on the mouth.

“You’re welcome,” Spot said. ”I’m glad. I just wanted it to be special for you.”

“Well, you definitely succeeded,” Race said, and moved to disentangle himself from Spot. “I’ve got to take off my binder. Let me go, Conlon.”

As he stretched, Race absently noted, “Jack’s back.”

“Yeah… that was for Crutchie, more than anyone,” Spot said. “I’m hoping Crutchie’s going to convince him to stay. You think it’s too far-fetched?”

As Race walked past the window, he let out an unattractive snort of laughter. “I would say, based on what I’m seeing right now, not too terribly far-fetched.”

Spot scrambled out of the armchair and ran to the window, stepping on Mush on the process and muttering a hurried “Sorry” before finally making it to where Race was standing.

There was Jack, and there was Crutchie, and they definitely didn’t hate each other anymore, based on the way they were attached at the mouth.

Despite the near silence in the apartment, Spot let out a whoop, pulling Race in by the front of his shirt for a kiss before yelling, “ _Jacky’s here to stay!”_

“Shut _up,_ ” came a voice that sounded like Romeo’s from under the table. “Let me _sleep._ ”

“He could be attempting a long-distance thing with Crutchie,” Race cautioned, but Spot shook his head.

“Nah,” he said, with complete confidence in his brother. “He’s here to stay. Trust me.”

~

Two days later, Jack left for Santa Fe once more.

Except this time, Crutchie was going with him, and he wasn’t going to stay. He was going to pack up the rest of his apartment, and resign from his job, and let his landlord know he was moving back east.

“Bring him back in one piece, Jacky-boy!” Blink called after the two of them in the train station, as they prepared to board their train.

“And with his innocence intact,” Romeo added, a shit-eating grin on their face. Specs whacked them in the head, and they shrugged shamelessly.

With Crutchie gone, even if it was just for a few days, Spot was free to have Race over without worrying about bothering Crutchie, so Race literally didn’t go back to his own apartment once, which is why Albert had to track him down with his news.

“Race!” he yelled, coming into Spot’s apartment with a crash. It was two days after Jack and Crutchie had left for New Mexico. “ _Racetrack Higgins!_ ”

“I’m in here,” Race called from Spot’s bedroom. He was on his laptop, lying on Spot’s bed, and Spot was lying beside him, head resting on Race’s legs, scrolling through an article on his phone.

“Are you decent?” Albert’s voice grew closer.

“Nah, we’re fucking,” Spot yelled. Race flicked him on the side of the head, then said, “Yeah, Albo. We’re decent. What’s up?”

“I fucking _got in,_ ” Albert said breathlessly, appearing in Spot’s bedroom doorway. “The fucking touring company. They _accepted me._ ”

“Shut the fuck up,” Race breathed. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“I’m fucking _not!_ ” Albert cried, and Race slammed his laptop lid closed and was across the room in seconds, wrapping Albert in a hug so tight he could almost _feel_ his ribs breaking.

“I’m so proud of you, asshole,” Race said in Albert’s ear. “I’m so fucking proud of you. I _told_ you they’d want you.”

“I hate to break this cozy… whatever-this-is up,” Spot interrupted, “but what the fuck happened?”

“The touring company. For the tour of that Broadway show I’ve been trying to be a part of _forever,_ ” Albert explained. “My agent just called me. I _got in!_ ”

Spot could feel himself smiling. “Fucking congrats, man. Knew you had it in you.”

“Thanks,” Albert breathed, then broke the hug with Race. “Shit, I have to _pack,_ I have to _call my boss,_ I have to- shit, you’ve got the apartment to yourself now,” he told Race. “I’ll be on tour, man. You’ve got the place to yourself.”

“I’ll move in with him,” Spot said. “So that he won’t be _lone-ly._ ”

“Shut up, shithead,” Race said affectionately. “And no, you won’t. What about Crutchie?”

“You really think Crutchie will object to having a place all to himself that he can _share_ with his boyfriend?” Spot asked incredulously. “He’ll love it. I’ll start packing my shit now.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Race, shrugging. He turned back to Albert. “I’m really fucking proud of you, man. You’re gonna fucking kill it.”

“Damn right,” said Albert. “And you’ve got to come see me when we come to New York, alright?”

“You think we’d miss it?” Race asked. “ _Please._ I’ll invite everyone and their grandma. It’ll be great.”

“I’m going to pack, but I love you,” Albert said. “Thanks for being a fucking awesome roommate all these years.”

“Same to you,” Race said, saluting solemnly, and then Albert was gone.

“You know,” said Spot thoughtfully, once the front door had shut behind Albert. “There was a time in my life when I thought you’d end up with him.”

“Albert?” Race asked, then shook his head. “Nah, he’s like my gay best friend.”

“Except you’re gay too,” Spot pointed out.

Race shrugged. “Fair enough. He’s like… the guy I would marry for tax benefits and adopt three cats and maybe a kid together if we were both still single at thirty.”

“Nice to see you’ve got a backup plan in case our relationship goes south,” Spot teased, and Race stuck his tongue out at him.

“Shit, I’ve got to tell Crutchie he owns the apartment now,” Spot realized, and he whipped out his phone.

**[me] yo crutch albo’s got a touring job im moving in w race**

**[me] the apts yours dude**

**[crutch] ??? you’re kidding**

**[me] im rly not**

Spot put his phone down. “I’ll let him work the details of that out with Jack. They’ve got a _lot_ to talk about.”

Race hummed, coming back to sit on the bed. “So do we.”

“Excellent point,” Spot agreed. “I suggest we talk sleeping arrangements first.”

“You want a conversation or a demonstration?” Race asked, a sly grin spreading across his face, and it was so ridiculous Spot couldn’t help but laugh.

“Ooh, talk dirty to me, baby,” he snorted, and Race kissed his neck as he cracked up.

“In all seriousness,” Race said, “I’m going to really like sharing an apartment with you, Spot.”

“Duh,” Spot said. “We won’t have to kick Crutchie or Albert out every time we want to have sex.”

“I hate you,” Race said, but he was laughing.

Spot grinned, kissing his boyfriend on the lips before pulling back and saying, “Love you too.”

~

“It’s pretty,” Crutchie admitted. “I can see why you fell in love with it.”

“There are things back home that are prettier,” Jack said, squeezing his hand. They were sitting in the bed of Jack’s ancient pickup truck, watching the sun set over the New Mexican desert. “I fell in love with things back home, too.”

“Yeah?” Crutchie asked. “Such as?”

“Hmm, I could think of a few examples,” Jack said, leaning in to kiss Crutchie.

 “I’m glad you’re coming back,” Crutchie hummed, after a few long moments of kissing.

“Me too,” Jack murmured. “I’m glad I’m coming back, too.”

“And you’ve got to promise me you’re not going to just… _leave,_ out of the blue,” Crutchie said, holding Jack’s gaze with a serious look. “I’ll admit I overreacted when you told me before, but in my defense, you just dropped it on me. You’ve got to promise me you won’t do that again.”

“Trust me,” Jack promised. “Next time I leave, you’re coming with me.”

“I’d like that,” Crutchie whispered. “I’d like that a lot.”

And this time, it was him who leaned in for the kiss.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the majority of this was written on my dying craptop as i prayed fervently for said dying craptop Not To Die
> 
> good news, kiddies
> 
> here we are 
> 
> (it didnt die)
> 
> enjoy! comments and kudos contribute to the cause 
> 
> the Byrd Writes Shit cause
> 
> i'm @to-thc-rcvolution on tumblr come yell abt newsies with me my inbox is always open
> 
> ilyall 
> 
> i need sleep


	31. bare!au- sprace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> self-indulgent Pilgrims Hands with sprace bc i wanted to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ISNT EDITED IM SO ! SORRY 
> 
> THIS MIGHT BE SHIT I WAS JUST WATCHING BARE AND I HAD TO, Y'ALL. I HAD TO 
> 
> FT. GRATUITOUS ERASURE OF SEVERAL CHARACTERS AND JUST USING IVY BC I CAN'T USE ANY OF THE GIRLSIES WITHOUT IT BEING AWKWARD 
> 
> HERE GOES NOTHING 
> 
> -BYRD

Sister Medda thought she was perfectly justified in crossing herself before going into the rehearsal room, because some of the things she thought when she saw the train wreck that was their production of _Romeo and Juliet_ were less  than holy.

“Sniper, do I hear a waltz and not a Charleston?” she demanded, and the girl in question stopped dancing, one leg raised almost guiltily in a half-kick. “Why are you _kicking?”_ She shook her head. “Never mind.”

Then she caught sight of Finch, and she just barely caught herself before she physically flinched. “Finch, I’m moving _you-”_ and here she took the boy by the shoulders and guided him into the back row of dancers, “-Where no one can see you.”

Finch started to protest, but she held up a hand. “Uh-uh. God gave you two left feet, and there’s no need to hammer that point home to the audience.”

Finch’s shoulders slumped, but really. Medda couldn’t be expected to worry about the students’ _feelings._ This was show biz. She had a musical to put on.

“Blink, please don’t count out loud.” Blink looked up, startled, from where he had been watching his own footwork (and yes, counting out loud). “Seriously. It’s like _white-two-three, white-two-three._ ”

Sister Medda took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself, but seeing that the students still weren’t getting anywhere with this damned dance, she gave up. “Alright, everyone take five!”

~

Race vaguely heard Albert’s announcement about the pharmacy closing on Friday, distantly noted Smalls’ innocent, naïve reply, but he wasn’t worried about any of that. He only had eyes for Spot, who was crouched by his bag against the wall of the rehearsal room.

“Hey,” he said gently, and Spot looked up. Race had hoped to see a smile, or warmth in his eyes, at least, but Spot’s expression remained carefully neutral.

“Hey,” he replied, somewhat hesitantly.

“So, ah,” Race said, frantically searching for something to say, because he honestly hadn’t thought he’d get this far. “How’s living with Crutchie?”

“It’s fine,” Spot muttered curtly, zipping his bag and standing. He moved around Race to go join the rest of the class, but Race caught his arm.

“Spot,” he said. “Come on. We graduate in _three days._ Are you really never going to speak to me again?”

Spot didn’t answer, didn’t even look at Race, which was an answer all in itself.

“Spot,” said Race, throwing caution to the winds and going against every single impulse he had screaming at him to _stop._ “I miss you.”

Blame Race’s desperate, overeager imagination, but he could have _sworn_ Spot’s breath hitched ever so slightly. He didn’t get the chance to ask about it, or expand on what he’d said, because at that moment, Sister Medda clapped her hands for attention.

“Okay, let’s run Pilgrims’ Hands,” she called, and people started to go to their places, facing their dance partners.

“Ivy isn’t here, Sister,” Mush said, and Medda actually groaned out loud.

“ _Again?_ ” she demanded, and Mush shrugged. “Wonderful. Just _wonderful.”_ She turned and addressed the group as a whole. “Who’s Juliet’s understudy?”

“I am!” cried Sniper, and Medda gave her a long, critical look.

“Alright, Sniper…” she said carefully, and Sniper eagerly took her starting position, facing Race.

“Race,” Medda said, waving a hand for him to begin. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Race took a deep breath as the music began and he sang the opening verses to _Pilgrims’ Hands_ while moving his arms and turning to face Sniper, bowing to her like the dashing Romeo he was.

“ _If I profane with my unworthiest hand,”_ he sang gently, watching Sniper’s dancing and mirroring her in time to the music. “ _This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this…”_ A ducking motion, one that Sniper over-exaggerated and almost smacked him in the face, causing him to dodge and throw off the motion of his own dancing.

Truth be told, he’d only practiced this dance once before with a girl, and Sniper was less than a brilliant dancer. Several times, her dramatized arm movements almost caught him in the face, and when the couple was meant to join arms while facing each other, she didn’t make it in time for the music and as a result had to hurry to catch up.

Some tiny, bitter part of Race thought, _Spot never fucked up the dance._

Because of course it was Spot who had volunteered to help him practice the dance once they’d learned it in rehearsal. Of course it was Spot playing the part of Race’s Juliet, mirroring Race’s dancing perfectly and even singing Juliet’s part in harmony with Race. Oftentimes, their late-night dance lessons in their dorm room turned into much more- Spot would promise Race a kiss if he got the entire dance all the way through without a mistake, and Race was more than happy to do it as many times as necessary now that he had motivation. One kiss usually turned into two, and then three, and then Spot was pressing Race against the wall, or had pushed him onto the bed and followed him down, and all thoughts of practicing were long gone from either of their minds.

Race did his best not to think about Spot. He was dancing with _Sniper._ A _girl._ A _proper Juliet._

 _“My lips,”_ he sang, and a jolt of something… _longing, maybe,_ shot through him. Longing for a Juliet that was a little shorter than Sniper, and a hell of a lot more muscular, with less soft curves and toothy grins and more hard edges and sharp expressions. “ _Two blushing pilgrims ready stand to soothe that rough touch with a tender kiss…”_

His verse complete, he stood back and waited for Sniper to sing her part, but she’d missed  her starting cue.

“Good pilgrim,” she cried, and then stopped.

_Oh, God. She doesn’t know the words._

_Spot never forgot the words._

Race shook his head, determined to stop thinking about Spot. Meanwhile, Sniper was still stuck on the first two words.

“Good pilgrim,” she said again, pausing and frantically turning to Race. “Wait, I know it, I _swear!_ Good pilgrim…”

She trailed off, and, embarrassed look on her face, fled the scene.

 _Guess I’m partnerless._ Race continued the next few dance moves as though he had a partner there, but then, to his shock, someone else began singing Juliet’s part.

His first thought was that Ivy had rejoined them, but that wasn’t right. This voice was low, and careful, and clearly a boy’s. And there was only one boy he knew who had Juliet’s part memorized.

“ _Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,”_ Spot sang, coming up from his place in the back row and joining Race in the front, slotting into Sniper’s place as though he belonged there. _“Which mannerly devotion shows in this…_ ” He made eye contact with Race, daring him to call him out for being there, for still having the dance memorized, for doing this _here, in front of all these people…_

Race’s brain was still frozen in shock, but muscle memory took over. He’d spent too many nights rehearsing this dance with Spot to forget the steps now.

“ _For saints have hands, that pilgrims’ hands do touch,_ ” Spot sang, and then Race spun and they were facing each other, and Race couldn’t help but remember how this always ended in their dorm room.

“ _And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss,”_ and then they were reaching for each other, hands stopping just shy of caressing each other’s faces. It was part of the choreography, but Race still couldn’t help but feel as though this was how things were in real life, too- reaching but never touching.

Behind them, someone laughed loudly in a badly disguised cough, and Race winced, suddenly aware of how he was dancing with a boy in front of the entire class. Before he could say anything, or pull away, Medda spoke up.

“In Shakespeare’s time, boys played _all_ the parts, you idiot,” she snapped. “I’ll thank you to keep your ignorance as hidden as possible. Might I suggest you stop breathing?” The laughter cut off abruptly. “That’s what I thought.” She turned back to Race and Spot, an encouraging expression on her face. “Race, go on.”

Race took a deep breath. “ _Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”_

Spot nodded, a small smile on his face, and Race marveled at his acting ability, because he was shaking, but still managed to look at Race (at _Romeo,_ he reminded himself,) with wonder and maybe a little bit of love, too.

Of course, that might have been Race’s overeager imagination again, but maybe, just _maybe…_

“ _Ay, pilgrim,”_ Spot agreed, “ _lips, that they must use in prayer.”_

“ _O then dear saint, let lips do what hands do._ ” They’d used this line time and time again, whispered it to each other while kissing before cracking up laughing and almost ruining the mood entirely. Race shook his head again. _Focus._ “ _They pray, grant thou… lest…_ ” He faltered, because Ivy had just appeared in the doorway, and her expression was odd and confused and maybe a little betrayed. “ _Lest…_ ” he tried again.

“ _…Lest faith turn to despair,”_ Spot finished for him, pulling him into the embrace that signaled the end of the song, and everywhere his skin made contact with Race’s sent little pinpricks of electricity up Race’s spine. Oh, how he’d missed this. Oh, how he’d missed _Spot,_ his touch, his voice, his _presence._

Without thinking, he shoved Spot away, pretending not to see the hurt look on his face as he did so.

“Well _done,_ Spot,” gushed Medda. She seemed to notice Ivy in the doorway too, because her eyebrows knit themselves together and she crossed her arms. “Ivy, nice of you to join us, _but_ we’re finished.” She turned and addressed the class as a whole. “Y’all want this dance to look like…” She waved her hands vaguely. “Bumper cars? Cool. I ain’t cosigning on it. This room will be left open if you want to get together one more time and _believe me_ when I say _you need it._ As for me, I’m gonna do a little Pontius Pilate.” At their blank looks, she pantomimed washing her hands. “I’m washing my hands of y’all.”

Then she left, and Mush turned to the class.

“Guys, we really need to run this,” he said, somewhat desperately. “Let’s meet here? Tonight at seven o clock, alright?”

“ _All_ of us,” said Crutchie, narrowing his eyes at Ivy. “Don’t be late.”

Race turned to look at Spot and to … what? Apologize? Thank him? Beg him to come back and give him another chance? He wasn’t sure.

Whatever he was going to say didn’t matter, because Spot had already vanished into the crowd of exiting students, leaving Race alone with his thoughts and a whole hell of a lot of confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GO WATCH BARE PLZ IT'S GOOD
> 
> A WHOLE HELL OF A LOT BETTER THAN ANYTHING I CAN WRITE 
> 
> ILY ALL 
> 
> GOOD NIGHT

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @to-thc-rcvolution on tumblr. come yell at me/say hi


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